


My Faith is Buried Somewhere Underneath the Town

by mnabokov



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, Dragons, HP: EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Post-Battle of Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-02-26 03:34:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 57,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13227255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mnabokov/pseuds/mnabokov
Summary: Six long months after the war, Harry and Draco find a strange, hollow stone in the Forbidden Forest. They keep it.





	1. Clockwork

**Author's Note:**

> My faith is buried somewhere underneath the town  
> Strawberry season, my sweetheart is coming round  
> How did you find me here? It must be perfect timing  
> If I didn’t love you then I damn sure love you now
> 
> \- Anderson .Paak’s “The Season”

Harry leads them to the very edge of the Forbidden Forest. He lifts the heavy lantern. Yellow light illuminates a narrow, winding trail that meanders until it disappears into the woods.  
  
“Here?” Malfoy asks, weakly.  
  
Harry sighs. “Come on,” he says.  
  
They walk for a little, following the path. Underfoot, leaves and twigs crunch. Harry does his best not to flinch at the noise.  
  
“There,” Malfoy points to a clump of waxy green leaves. “We’ll follow those.”  
  
For lack of a better suggestion, Harry shrugs and follows as Malfoy picks his way through the plants. The leaves come up around mid-calf. Harry runs his fingers along the tops of them.  
  
“Do you remember,” Harry begins, “The first time we came here? First Year?”  
  
Malfoy scoffs. “Hard to forget.”  
  
Harry remembers rather clearly: wandering through the woods with Malfoy, Ron, Hermione, Hagrid, and Fang; searching for an eater of unicorns, meeting centaurs. Those were simpler times, when Harry was surer of what to do, how to feel.  
  
He pushes those thoughts away.  
  
“Are you sure we’ll find turmeric here?” Harry asks, looking skeptically around. Malfoy hoists up his own lantern. He wrinkles his nose.  
  
“No,” Malfoy says eventually. He stands up from where he was inspecting a particularly bushy plant. “But it wasn’t my fault we’re in this situation, so I can’t be the one held responsible.” He sniffs.  
  
Harry stops. “Wasn’t your fault?”  
  
“Of course not. If you had just handed me the turmeric powder when I asked -- ”  
  
“When you _asked_? If you asked, then why would you reach for it?”  
  
“Because you were the one who took too long reaching for it!”  
  
Harry groans.  
  
Malfoy turns away, lantern swinging. He walks farther, stooping low every so often. Harry follows, not bothering to do the same.  
  
“Why didn’t you ask for your wand?” Harry asks, not expecting an answer. He doesn’t expect much nowadays. “Before -- before summer, before we started rebuilding?” Harry looks down at his feet, where his shoes look like black welts against the green plants.  
  
“Potter.”  
  
“Whose wand did you use? During the summer?”  
  
“Potter!” Malfoy swings his lantern in Harry’s face. “Look.”  
  
In the earth, nestled in the waxy green leaves is a large stone. In the yellow light, it looks nearly dark. The stone’s shiny surface refracts their lantern light, albeit into melted shards, not unlike smears of butter. Harry bends down to examine it, his knees nearly knocking into Malfoy’s.  
  
“What is it?” Harry reaches out and Malfoy slaps his hand back.  
  
“Are you stupid?” Malfoy stares at him incredulously before turning back to the stone. Malfoy sets his lantern down and casts several spells that Harry doesn’t know. Purple threads weave out over the stone. “Alright,” Malfoy says a minute later. There’s a crease between his eyebrows.  
  
Harry reaches out and takes the stone into hand. It’s heavier than it looks, and fits snugly into his hands when he cups them together. The outside of the stone is webbed in a white, veinish material. Malfoy reaches out and raps it with his knuckles. “It’s -- hollow,” he concludes.  
  
“It’s not turmeric,” Harry says absent-mindedly. Fascinated, he runs his hands over the smooth surface again. He wonders.  
  
Malfoy sneers and then takes the stone and tucks it into his pack. “We won’t find turmeric here.”  
  
“We have to find it eventually. Slughorn’ll be pissed if we don’t replace what we lost within the next -- ”  
  
Malfoy waves him off. “We’ll find it.”  
  
Needless to say, they don’t find any turmeric. They head back to the castle after more fruitless searching, both of them thoroughly exhausted. Malfoy Vanishes their lanterns as they head to the east side of the castle, to the Eighth Year common room.  
  
They’re heading down the corridor when Malfoy veers off. “Bathroom,” he says before turning a corner sharply, to the opposite direction of the common room.  
  
“Goodnight, Malfoy,” Harry says, only half sincere.  
  
“Piss off,” comes floating back at him.  
  
The doors to the common room swing open. Professor McGonagall’s voice fills the corridor, along with warm firelight from the crackling hearth.  
  
“Mr. Finnigan. You’ll be with Mr. Thomas.”  
  
Hearty laughing. “Alright!”  
  
“Gentlemen.”  
  
“Sorry, Professor.”  
  
Harry slips into the common room just in time to see Professor McGonagall peering over her glasses. She seems much older.  
  
“Ms. Lovegood. And Ms. Granger.”  
  
Someone titters quietly.  
  
“Mr. Potter. Mr. Malfoy.”  
  
Harry blinks. “I -- what?”  
  
“That will be all,” McGonagall continues, rolling up her parchment and looking over the students. “Hogwarts is expecting that you perform to your utmost, ladies and gentlemen. Many responsibilities fall on you this year and you have set expectations.” She takes off her glasses. “That being said, I do realize it is an enormous feat to have returned, undiminished.” She looks as though she’s about to say something else. After a second, McGonagall concludes, “That will be all.”  
  
“Professor,” Harry scrambles to his feet as the other students, dismissed, begin talking amongst themselves. Harry skirts around Neville and Seamus to follow Professor McGonagall. “Professor -- ”  
  
Her emerald robes sweep across the floor as she exits the room. “Do you have an inquiry regarding your assignment, Mr. Potter?” She turns a critical eye on him.  
  
“Er, yes. I was just -- well, is it the best idea to have me and Malfoy together? I was only -- ”  
  
“I think in these circumstances,” she says, continuing down the corridor. “Yes, this is the best idea.” She stops in her path suddenly. Harry takes three steps back to stand next to her. “Potter,” she says, quieter, “I do understand that this is a difficult time -- ”  
  
The most difficult part of war, Harry has learned, is not the actual fighting but the reparations afterwards.  
  
After the Battle of Hogwarts, there are many reparations to be made. They -- the Ministry -- talk of rebuilding, propose funds for rebuilding, and then they rebuild. And it takes a whole long summer.  
  
All of the reparation efforts go initially into Hogwarts and the Ministry of Magic. The latter for administrative purposes and the former to boost morale and hope. That’s what they say, anyway.  
  
It takes four, gruelling days to clear Hogwarts of the bodies. For those bodies that still have living family, they are identified, and then whisked away, presumably to be mourned and buried. For those bodies that have no living family, Professor Sprout and Professor Flitwick clear an area between the Forbidden Forest and the lake. For those bodies that cannot be identified, they are buried underneath blank, marble headstones. Fenrir Greyback made work of a few of the bodies before Harry and Neville made work of him.  
  
“ -- for all students,” McGonagall is saying, “But we need unity in this time of anguish. And I trust that you and Mr. Malfoy will get along well enough.” She flares her nostrils. “Don’t prove me wrong.”  
  
“I -- yes, Professor,” Harry says, albeit with a slight frown.  
  
“Goodnight, Mr. Potter. I shall see you at the feast tomorrow.”  
  
His feet take him back along the corridor. He wonders how many times he’s walked this hall without really seeing it.  
  
Before long, he’s reached the entrance to the temporary common room. He pauses for a moment. Steeling himself, he reaches out and then pushes open the door.  
  
Malfoy’s sitting closest to the door, in a leather-backed chair. He looks up. Harry catches his gaze and starts to move towards him.  
  
“Harry!” Ron’s waving from the other side of the common room, by the fire.  
  
Harry nods at Malfoy and doubles back towards the fire. He tells himself to talk to Malfoy tomorrow.  
  
“Blimey, Harry,” Ron says.  
  
Harry jerks his head once to the left in an aborted movement.  
  
Catching on, Ron glances behind them. Malfoy’s still in his chair, but now his chin has slid to his chest as he stares out the window. Closer to them, Neville and Luna are poring over a lurid magazine. Everyone else has disappeared into their rooms.  
  
“Where’s Hermione?” Harry asks. He yawns and rubs his eyes.  
  
Ron gestures to the right. Hermione stands in front of the announcement board, where a single, long roll of parchment has been tacked up. After finishing copying something down, she heads towards them.  
  
“Right,” she taps the side of her mouth thoughtfully, “This isn’t bad.”  
  
“Easy for you to say,” Ron says, “You’re with Luna.”  
  
Hermione offers Harry an apologetic smile.  
  
“‘S fine,” he mumbles.  
  
They talk for a little longer, before Harry calls it a night. He bids goodnight to Ron and Hermione, Neville and Luna and Malfoy -- the last of which doesn’t acknowledge him. It almost feels as though he were back at Hogwarts as just a student again, back before… everything.  
  
But when he clambers into his bed, Harry finds it difficult to sleep. He tosses and turns, hearing every uneven breath and creak in the floorboards as his roomates settle down. He eventually falls into a restless sleep.  
  
The next morning, Harry wakes up late. His collar is sticking to his neck in a ring of cold sweat.  
  
After he cleans, he heads down to breakfast with Ron and Hermione, Neville and Ginny and Luna not far behind. It feels underwhelmingly normal. They go to class, and then lunch, and then dinner.  
  
Most of the other Eighth Years are already in the Hall by the time Harry arrives for supper. They have their own table, adjacent to the staff table at the front of the hall. Harry makes his way over to one of the empty seats next to Malfoy.  
  
“Hello,” Harry says determinedly.  
  
Malfoy looks up for a second then back down at his steak.  
  
“Did you see the schedule? We have -- ”  
  
“I saw it.”  
  
“Right.”  
  
The rest of dinner passes in a similar manner. Harry wants to mention something about the stone, but Malfoy is absorbed in cutting his steak.  
  
Ron and Hermione sit on the other side of Harry, chatting away. The staff table fills up quickly. Harry waves at Hagrid.  
  
Over the summer, most of the staff stayed at Hogwarts, helping with the repairs along with the Eighth Year students and many other volunteers. Hagrid was the exception -- since Voldemort employed so many magical creatures in his army, Hagrid was called all over England to assist and advise in the rehabilitation of many of the creatures. It was nice seeing Hagrid appreciating for his work, but at the same time, it meant that Hagrid was rarely seen around Hogwarts.  
  
“We should visit him soon,” Hermione says, looking up. It’s only been a week or so since the beginning of term, so they haven’t had a chance to do much yet. Ron mumbles his agreements around a mouthful of peas. “You know, I was talking to Professor Vector today at lunch.” Hermione untucks her napkin. “Repairs are almost done on the third floor. We’ll be done, soon.”  
  
“Bloody hell,” Ron says, “Took long enough. Don’t know how many more times I can -- ” he breaks off with a cough and Harry claps him on the back. “Wrong windpipe,” he heaves.  
  
Hermione purses her lip. “It’ll good to have Hogwarts whole again.” She pushes her hair back out of her eyes. “And with the Ministry of Magic up and running, we’ll be finished in no time.”  
  
Malfoy drops his silver knife onto his plate with a loud clatter. He looks away sharply.  
  
Ron glances at Malfoy but thinks better of it. Harry gives him a grateful look: Ron and Hermione didn’t have to come broach Malfoy’s self-imposed bubble with Harry, but they have without complaint. It seems as though not much can get them down these days.  
  
Dinner wraps up quickly. After polishing their desserts, Ron and Hermione rise to head back to the common room. The prefects begin herding students to their dormitories. Harry rises as well, but then Hermione looks at him, then Malfoy, significantly.  
  
“Er.”  
  
From across the table, Hermione rolls her eyes. “See you in the common room, Harry.”  
  
Ron and Hermione head out hand in hand.  
  
Harry turns to Malfoy.  
  
“I’ll meet you underneath the trap door? Tonight?”  
  
“Fine.”  
  
When Harry doesn’t leave immediately, Malfoy looks up. “Anything else?”  
  
“No,” Harry says eventually. Awkwardly, Harry trudges along and returns to the common room. He agrees to play a game of chess with Ron to pass the time.  
  
When the clock tower strikes eight o’clock, Harry rises. “Good game,” he claps Ron.  
  
Hermione looks up. “Go on and change then,” she says.  
  
Ron grimaces.  
  
Harry heads up to his room and tosses on a pair of Muggle jeans and an old sweater.  
  
“Good luck,” they call out as he passes once more.  
  
Harry climbs down the trapdoor, where Malfoy is already waiting for him.  
  
Malfoy raises an eyebrow at Harry’s attire but doesn’t comment. He’s abandoned their Hogwarts robes as well, instead donning a dark gray pair of robes, free of embellishments save for stitched sleeves and collar.  
  
They take the staircase down and exit the castle. Filch eyes them as they go but makes no move to interrupt.  
  
The wind hisses at them as they take the path down to Hogsmeade.  
  
“I still have your wand,” Harry blurts out, apropos of nothing, as they walk up the dirt path, past Hogsmeade shops and cafes. “And I wasn’t saying no. I was only -- surprised.”  
  
Malfoy lets out a huff of air.  
  
“I can -- I can give it back to you, if you want,” Harry says lamely.   
  
“Alright,” Malfoy says stiffly. He pulls his gray robes tighter around himself.   
  
Harry sighs and they continue walking.  
  
Silence hangs over them until they reach the Hog’s Head. Harry reaches for the door the same time Malfoy does. Both of them step back too quickly. Harry grimaces. “Here,” he opens the door.  
  
When they exit again several hours later, the bell tower just rings once, signaling the late hour.  
  
“Well,” Harry yawns again as they stumble out of the Hog’s Head, into the indifferent night. He seems tired an awful lot, lately. “That wasn’t awful.”  
  
Malfoy grunts and they make their way back to the castle, in a similar manner that they departed: in silence.  
  
They could’ve taken the tunnel behind Arianna’s portrait; Harry isn’t sure if Malfoy knows about it, frankly doesn’t think it matters if Malfoy _does_ know about it, but he isn’t so inclined to walk through that tunnel again when the memories are so fresh. So.  
  
They make their way back to the castle in the cold, the lights warm and familiar.  
  
After climbing up the steps, they make their way to the common room. Malfoy yanks on the door and they walk in.  
  
Hermione looks up from where she’s reading. Ron’s snoring in her lap. “Anything?” Hary shakes his head no.  
  
“Good night,” Harry says, rubbing his eyes as he heads to his room.  
  
“Night,” Hermione calls after them.  
  
Harry falls into his bed and yanks the curtains closed. Sleeps.  
  
  
  
Professor McGonagall and Hermione have worked their magic so that on the days Harry -- and presumably, other Eighth Year students -- come back to their dormitories late, their classes are delayed until around lunchtime the following day.  
  
It’s because of this that Harry’s able to lounge in his four-poster bed the next morning.  
  
Sunlight slants through the gaps in the curtains and when Harry finally gets up, the room he shares with Dean and Seamus has been warmed over. He cleans up then rummages in his trunk for a bit.  
  
Triumphantly, Harry pulls out Malfoy’s wand and heads out towards the second boys’ room. He raps on the door. “Malfoy?”  
  
No answer.  
  
Harry lingers in front of the door. No one else should be in the dorm, since everyone else has classes. Maybe he went down for lunch, Harry thinks, and is about to turn away when the door opens.  
  
“What.” Malfoy stares back at Harry. He’s wearing the same gray robe from yesterday, although it is rumpled.  
  
“Er,” Harry holds up the wand.  
  
Malfoy blinks, visibly surprised. “Oh.” Then, “Thank you.”  
  
Harry nods awkwardly, and is about to turn and head downstairs when he remembers to ask: “Whose wand were you using?”  
  
Malfoy hesitates, then says, “My mother’s.”  
  
Harry pauses for a moment.  
  
Malfoy frowns. “Anything else?”  
  
“The stone?” Harry prompts.  
  
“What about it?”  
  
“Well,” Harry scratches the back of his head, “I dunno, I was just -- ”  
  
Malfoy yanks open the door to his dormitory. He points his wand to the bed closest to the door. “ _A_ _ccio stone!_ ”  
  
In the almost white sunlight of the boys’ dormitory, the stone now looks blue, rather than black.  
  
“I don’t,” Harry says, when Malfoy proffers it, “I don’t want it. I was just wondering where it was.”  
  
Malfoy takes the stone back and examines it himself. His eyebrows furrow.  
  
Eventually, he turns away and tucks the stone back into his pack. Malfoy folds the leather straps of his pack around the stone’s circumference and ties it snug. When he turns back to the dormitory door, there’s an expression of shock on his face when he sees Harry still there. “What?”  
  
“We have class.” Harry steps back. “I thought -- never mind.” Harry heads down the staircase and goes to class.  
  
The shifts cycle through and a few days later, they’re on again.  
  
“Did you see the schedule?” Hermione asks over breakfast. Harry doesn’t know if she’s asking him or Malfoy, but Malfoy sure as fuck isn’t going to reply, so Harry does: “Yeah.” He swallows a dry mouthful of his beans. “Yeah.” When Harry reaches for the jam by Malfoy's elbow, Malfoy leans back, and away.  
  
“You two are on for tonight?” Hermione has perfected the art of eating and talking and writing at the same time, a skill which she displays at the current moment.  
  
Harry grunts in acknowledgement.  
  
Hermione hums and finishes her pudding.  
  
“Hey,” Ron croaks, bleary.  
  
Hermione looks at him, eyes soft and round. She puts the back of her hand to his forehead, folding her thumb in to keep her pen out of Ron’s eyes. “Are you feeling alright?”  
  
Ron pushes her hand off. “Hey, aren’t you meeting with -- with Matilda? Hopkin?”  
  
“Who?” Hermione smiles.  
  
Ron frowns.  
  
“Mafalda,” Harry supplies, taking pity on Ron. “Mafalda Hopkirk.”  
  
“Oh Mafalda!” Hermione’s eyes lights up and she drops her pen from her right hand and her fork from her right hand. “Mafalda Hopkirk, from -- ”  
  
“The Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” Harry and Ron say in unison. They look at her, exasperated.  
  
She laughs and shakes her head fondly. “Well yes, I’m meeting with her tonight, actually. We’re going to discuss a bit about the Ministry -- ”  
  
“If she gives you a job, promise you can’t leave us ‘til we finish this year, ‘Mione?”  
  
“Ronald, she won’t give me a job -- I haven’t even finished school yet!”  
  
Ron says, “Doesn’t seem like you need it that much anyway.”  
  
They continue bickering, blocking out the rest of the world, so Harry turns to Malfoy, who’s stabbing his stew.  
  
“So,” Harry begins.  
  
“You don’t have to sit with me at breakfast, Potter,” Malfoy says lowly, scowly. He doesn’t look at Harry, talking more to his goblet of pumpkin juice than anything else. “What do you think I’m going to do? Curse the Hogwarts students over tea? Hurt somebody?”  
  
Harry frowns. “I never said you were going to hurt anyone. If I thought you were -- which I don’t, and I don’t know why you do -- I wouldn’t have testified at your case.”  
  
Malfoy looks up at that, expression tight and dark. “I’m not your charity case either. I don’t want your _pity_ ,” he hisses quietly.  
  
Harry glances over his shoulder; Ron and Hermione are half-arguing, half-flirting still. “Look,” he says to Malfoy under his breath, “I’m not pitying you. I -- I’m just trying to make things right, Christ, I’m just trying to be -- _friendly_. Is that too much?”  
  
“God forbid we become friendly,” Malfoy mutters, but he turns away. His mouth is pinched but his expression is no longer tight.  
  
_Thwack!_  
  
Harry hits his boiled egg against the flat of the wooden table. He peels off the shell methodically. The weight of Malfoy’s gaze is unsettling.  
  
As Malfoy steps away, Harry looks up from his egg. “See you the same tonight?”  
  
Malfoy sneers but it seems half-hearted.  
  
The day crawls by slowly. He has Potions after lunch but sits on the opposite side of the classroom from Malfoy, so it’s uneventful. At supper, Harry takes a vacant seat at the end of the table, right next to the one that Malfoy -- who’s late, at the moment -- usually occupies.  
  
“You’ve heard a lot about my work,” Ron says, not really a question.  
  
Plopping into the seat on the other side of Harry, Hermione nods eagerly. “Oh, yes!” Ron takes the seat across from her. “In fact, I’ve found many notable applications in the History of Magic class I’m currently enrolled in. For example,” Hermione continues prattling on. Ron nods, frowning down at a piece of parchment Hermione’s clearly given him to read.  
  
“And, uh, Ms. Granger,” Ron reads, “How have your other subjects been this year?”  
  
“I’m glad you asked, Ms. Hopkirk!” Hermione says.  
  
“I thought this wasn’t actually an interview?” Harry interrupts, slightly confused. “Why are you practicing if it isn’t an interview?”  
  
She shushes him. “It’s not really an interview, but I’ve still got to put my best foot forward, don’t I?” Hermione turns back to Ron and begins discussing Arithmancy.  
  
Everyone’s settled in, so it’s a surprise when Malfoy enters dinner as Harry begins piling potatoes onto his plate. Seeing Harry and Ron and Hermione at his usual seating, Malfoy hesitates.  
  
At this, Harry raises an eyebrow, giving his best nonverbal approximation of,  _come on then_.  
  
Malfoy blinks twice then drops his books onto the bench near Harry.  
  
“Hello,” Harry says.  
  
“Piss off.”  
  
Harry grins and digs into his potatoes.  
  
Congregating in the common room after dinner gives Harry some time to digest. Ginny and Luna have crept into their shared space, playing a quick game of Exploding Snap with Seamus and Dean. Neville dozes in his armchair; Millicent Bulstrode, who outside of classes hasn’t been seen since the Start-of-Term, has appeared to watch quietly. A few others like Terry Boot hang in the back near the windows, talking. Harry’s content to lounge on the couch. He does so, until the clock tower rings eight o’clock.  
  
“I’m off,” he announces to the room at large, and waves goodbye. He swings open the door to the common room and exits, only to find Hermione and Malfoy standing outside: Hermione’s wearing her dress robes -- the nice set she bought over summer -- and Malfoy has on a nondescript black jacket and similar trousers -- Harry remembers him wearing something like it during sixth year.  
  
Harry blinks in surprise.  
  
“There you are,” Hermione says, a little shrilly. She steps away from Malfoy. “I’m meeting Hopkirk in Hogsmeade, so I thought I’d come with you two.”  
  
“Right,” Harry says. He looks between Malfoy and Hermione again. Malfoy shifts uncomfortably.  
  
“Shall we?” Hermione says, then begins down the corridor without waiting for reply.  
  
The other two follow her and they begin the walk down to Hogsmeade. All the while, Hermione murmurs to herself under her breath. Malfoy seems hardly inclined to talk. All of Harry’s attempts to start conversation are in vain. It’s an uncomfortable half hour, to say the least.  
  
They finally reach the Three Broomsticks, where Hermione waves them a quick goodbye.  
  
“Good luck,” Harry calls after her. He’s not sure if she hears it. When he turns back towards the road, Malfoy’s already making his way forward.  
  
“What was that?” Harry asks, jogging forward to catch up.  
  
“What was what,” Malfoy says.  
  
“That, back there. When I came out of the common room.”  
  
Malfoy sniffs. “None of your business, Potter.”  
  
Harry begins to protest but they reach the Hog’s Head, and Malfoy swings open the door and steps through. Harry sighs and follows.  
  
They come back. The common room door swings open: Malfoy goes straight to the dormitories without another word; Ron’s slouched on an armchair by the fire, waiting. He looks pale and gaunt.  
  
“Anything?” Ron rasps.  
  
“No,” Harry frowns, coming around immediately. “Hey mate,” Harry claps his shoulder, “You alright? You’re looking a bit off.” Worry gnaws at Harry’s belly.  
  
“Yeah,” Ron groans. “Probably something I ate.” He sits up. “I think I fell asleep for a bit.”  
  
“Looks like it,” Harry gestures at Ron’s rumpled hair.  
  
“Hermione not back yet?”  
  
“It’s probably good,” Harry says, taking a seat on the couch adjacent to Ron’s armchair. “That she’s taking this long, I mean. Means they have a lot to talk about, I reckon.”  
  
Ron grunts in agreement as he nestles further into his armchair. “Told her it’d be fine.”  
  
“Ron,” Harry says, “Are you sure you’re feeling -- ”  
  
The common room door swings open and Ron stands up in a flash, smiling away at Hermione, who’s got hair standing up in the back. Her cheeks are flushed, but she smiles brightly. “It went well,” she exclaims as she walks in, dropping her bag to the floor, “It went really, really well, Ron, and she -- oh, she was so nice -- ”  
  
Ron pulls her into a tight hug, all traces of illness gone, so Harry puts that out of his mind, goes over to congratulate Hermione.  
  
  
  
The clock tower strikes eight o’clock.  
  
“I’ll see you,” Harry says to Neville. Ron has retired upstairs, still weary, and Hermione has called it a night as well. The rest of the common room is quiet, students either studying or chatting quietly.  
  
The wooden doors swing shut behind Harry. When he looks up, Malfoy waits in the corridor, half illuminated by the flickering scones on the wall. “Ready?” Harry asks, more out of habit than actually expecting an answer.  
  
Malfoy starts down the corridor, and Harry follows.  
  
They walk down to Hogsmeade in near silence. When they reach the Hog’s Head, lights flicker from behind windows crusted with filth.  
  
Inside, Aberforth wipes down a dirty glass with an even dirtier rag. Harry jerks his head awkwardly in greeting. Malfoy shifts his black pack uncomfortably. They continue on, past the few sleepy patrons nursing their drinks, towards the back exit of the bar.  
  
After the back door swings open and shut, he and Malfoy both turn on the spot and Apparate.  
  
When the nausea dies down, the yellow lights and cobblestone streets of Hogsmeade have been replaced by a dark landscape: scraggly, spiny trees rip out of the ground, reaching towards the sky; a thin dirt path winds through the woods, towards a wooden cabin. In the distance, the ocean waves crash.  
  
Malfoy undoes the wards like always and they step into the cabin when Harry’s watch reads half past eight. Like clockwork, Malfoy casts a _Lumos_ , puts his pack onto the table while Harry _Accios_ two lanterns. Harry slips out of the cabin. Malfoy paces the length of the cabin, ducking his head and wand into the two dark rooms: a bedroom and a bathroom. After he starts a fire and secures the cabin, he heads back into the darkness where he finishes the other side of the property. Both he and Harry hold their lanterns and wands high, checking the wards as they walk. After they finish their rounds, they both head back into the cabin.  
  
The ward stretches out for miles up the coast. If anyone steps foot on these shores, they know and they report back to Hogwarts. Because:  
  
After the war, all of the reparation efforts go initially into Hogwarts and the Ministry of Magic. The latter for administrative purposes and the former to boost morale and hope. That’s what they say; but it’s a well-known fact that the school serves as quarters for the Order of the Phoenix and Dumbledore’s Army. Or what’s left of it anyway.  
  
“There are still dark forces roaming free,” McGonagall had said, not twelve hours after Voldemort’s cold body hit the ground. “While they evade capture, we shall do our best to assist the healing Ministry and ensure that no Death Eaters or anyone of that ilk come close. If they do, we will alert the Aurors, and take necessary precautions.”  
  
Harry’s watch reads nine o’clock as they both step back into the cabin. Malfoy’s turned his collar up against the wind, and his hair sticks up in the back. Harry doesn’t say anything.  
  
Instead, he turns towards the wooden table and rickety chairs, collapsing into one of the latter.  
  
“Ugh,” he says to the room at large. Returning to Hogwarts for an Eighth Year seemed less of a decision and more of a _well, there’s nothing really left to do, since there aren’t any fledgling Dark Lords and the Ministry says I need my NEWTs anyway_. But when McGonagall came forward and said that Hogwarts would be the Headquarters for defense against any remaining Death Eaters, Harry started looking forward to school starting.  
  
Now, however, even keeping watch at one of many safehouses starts to become routine. Harry doesn’t want anyone to attack, of course, but --  
  
But he just wishes that he knew what he wanted to do, not what he’s _supposed_ to do. Sitting here, taking his NEWTs -- it’s all what everyone seems to expect him to do.  
  
Harry breaks out of his reverie when Malfoy begins undoing his pack.  
  
“What are you doing,” Harry says.  
  
“Undoing my pack.”  
  
“Right. Why?”  
  
Malfoy gives him a look, and finishes undoing his pack, flipping the straps over to pull out a familiar blue stone.  
  
“What’s that doing here?”  
  
“Have anything better to do?” Malfoy snaps.  
  
Harry starts to reply but then thinks better of it. _Maybe next time, I should bring a game of Exploding Snap_ , he thinks. They’ve spent the last two watches here pacing, sitting, and sneering at each other; or alternatively, sneering at each other, pacing, and sitting, and pacing.  
  
Malfoy looks at him.  
  
“What?” Harry says.  
  
“Nothing,” Malfoy looks away.  
  
“Tell me.”  
  
“No, it’s nothing.”  
  
“Tell me!”  
  
“Piss off!”  
  
Harry glares, but turns away. Folds his arms over his chest.  
  
Silence.  
  
“You know,” Malfoy begins waspishly a few minutes later, “It’s not really a stone, right?”  
  
“What are you on about?”  
  
“The stone,” Malfoy jerks his head towards it, where it’s still resting on top of Malfoy’s pack. “It’s not a stone.”  
  
“Right,” Harry says. “So what. What is it?”  
  
“You really don’t know?”  
  
“Obviously,” Harry bites out. “Just tell me.”  
  
“Are you telling me that you can’t figure it out?”  
  
Harry gnashes his teeth.  
  
“It’s hollow, Potter, what kind of stone is hollow?”  
  
“What. Is. It.”  
  
Malfoy glares. “You’re so dense, Potter. When was the last time you saw a stone like that?”  
  
Harry wracks his memory. After a minute, Harry says, “Actually, in our First Year, Hagrid -- ” Harry sits up in his chair. “You’re _joking_.”  
  
“I haven’t said anything, Potter,” Malfoy says primly.  
  
“It’s an egg?”  
  
“Dragon’s egg.”  
  
“Piss off.”  
  
Malfoy frowns. “That’s my line.”  
  
“What are we going to do with it?”  
  
“I’m going to hatch it, of course.”  
  
Harry blanches.


	2. At Least It's Not Spattergroit

“You’re -- not joking.”  
  
“No,” Malfoy says. He gets up and starts looking around the cabin.  
  
Harry wishes he hadn’t started thinking about how this was all routine -- it won’t be the last time he thinks it, either. He looks at Malfoy’s back as Malfoy turns to rummage through the cabinets. Harry thinks of how he looked at his trial, over the summer: gaunt, pale, hollow. Harry thinks there are worse things they can do than hatch a dragon’s egg.  
  
They look through the cabin and eventually find a rusty metal bucket under the kitchen sink. Harry constructs a spit of sorts in the hearth while Malfoy goes outside to fill the bucket full of water from the well; the taps inside the cabin don’t work.  
  
The door to the cabin opens again just as Harry finishes starting the fire with a quick _Incendio_. The metal bucket floats through the air, half full of well water. Harry takes it from the air and hitches it to the spit he’s created.  
  
Malfoy frowns. “Why can’t we just -- ”  
  
“Magic won’t hold,” Harry says, stepping back after the metal bucket sags comfortably over the fire. “Unless you want to keep a spell going for another -- ” Harry flips his wrist over to check his watch. Nearly ten in the evening. “ -- three hours.”  
  
Malfoy doesn’t say anything. Instead, he lifts the dragon’s egg with a quick spell and hovers it over the bucket, sliding it in gently. Harry remembers Hagrid doing something similar.  
  
“We have to keep it over a warm heat source,” Malfoy says, speaking briskly. He doesn’t sound angry or resigned or condescending, which is good. “I put it in with some water, so it has that.” He sounds like he’s working through a checklist.  
  
“Wait, hang on,” Harry says. “Why water?”  
  
Malfoy rolls his eyes. “It’s a blue dragon, Potter. It’ll need the water to hatch.”  
  
Harry wants to comment on that, but doesn’t. _And why, exactly,_ Harry wants to ask, _does a blue dragon need water?_ But there are weirder things that have gone on, and if Malfoy wants to hatch a dragon --  
  
Harry sits back in his chair.  
  
Malfoy stokes the fire with occasional bright jets of orange-red light, face furrowed in concentration. Harry’s hands itch; he clenches them into fists.  
  
In its metal bucket, the water bubbles and pops cheerfully. The bucket sways gently, as though rocking a baby to sleep.  
  
Harry’s eyes droop heavily by the time his watch reads the late hour. “Time to go,” Harry says absently, three minutes before one in the morning.  
  
Another amber jet of light shoots out from Malfoy’s wand, hitting the fire with a spark and a hiss.  
  
“Malfoy.”  
  
“Alright, I heard you.”  
  
Malfoy puts the fire out with a muttered spell, then casts a Warming Charm over the bucket. “We’ll leave it here,” he says.  
  
They exit the cabin, extinguishing the lights on their way out. Malfoy checks the wards once more while Harry checks his watch. It’s one in the morning.  
  
The road back to the castle is completely empty. In the distance, Harry can make out the leaning structures of the greenhouse, between the castle and the forest, still waiting for repairments. Beyond that, the windows of Hagrid’s hut flicker with warm, yellow light. And beyond that, the moon peers over a serene lake.  
  
Harry and Malfoy navigate the moving stairs, up to the sixth floor. They walk down the shrouded corridor, to the common room door.  
  
“Anything?” Neville looks up from what appears to be his Transfiguration homework. Harry still needs to finish that essay.  
  
“No,” Malfoy says, and begins to climb up the stairs to the dormitories.  
  
Just as he places his first foot onto the stairs, however, Dean and Seamus come barreling down the steps, Ron in between them, arms slung over their shoulders.  
  
“Out of the way,” Seamus bellows, and Malfoy jumps back in shock.  
  
“Ron,” Harry rushes forward, “Ron -- what’s wrong, is he -- ”  
  
Dark shadows hang under Ron’s eyes; his skin is pasty and his mouth hangs half-open. “‘M fine,” he mumbles.  
  
“We’re getting you to the hospital wing,” Dean says, hoisting more of Ron’s weight onto himself.  
  
“What’s wrong?”  
  
“He was puking his guts all over the dorm floor,” Seamus grimaces, “Woke me up with all that retching.”  
  
“Sure he’ll be fine, mate,” Dean says, “Probably just an upset stomach.”  
  
“Right,” Harry says faintly. He follows them out into the corridor. “I’ll come with you.”  
  
They trek down to the hospital wing, relatively undisturbed.  
  
“Is he alright?” asks a voice.  
  
“Bloody hell,” mutters Seamus.  
  
The ghost of Lavender Brown hangs in the middle of the corridor, blocking their way to the hospital wing.  
  
“He’ll be fine,” Harry says, looking up at Lavender. He’s seen her once or twice around the castle, but never for long.  
  
She nods considerately and then floats away.  
  
“Right,” Dean says.  
  
Lavender disappears down another hallway, but Harry shudders. It’s -- unnerving, seeing his classmates, his friends, like this. He feels a wave of emotion but quickly pushes it down.  
  
Dean shoulders the door open to the hospital wing. “Madam Pomfrey,” he calls out. Seamus gestures to the nearest cot. “Madam Pomfrey -- ”  
  
She scuttles out of her office, skirts wrinkled. “Dear me,” she says, coming close. Harry wonders if she sleeps in there. Most likely. “What’s happened?”  
  
“Er,” Harry says, “He’s just been feeling a bit off these last few days. Said it was something he had to eat the first time, but I reckon it isn’t.”  
  
Seamus snorts. “Damn straight.”  
  
Madam Pomfrey tuts gently. “Well, I’ll give him something to sleep easy, then we’ll take a look at him in the morning. He seems to be alright at the moment.”  
  
They look down at Ron. He’s half-asleep -- has been, since they left the common room -- his eyes drooping and mouth slack.  
  
“Thank you,” Harry says to Madam Pomfrey. She waves him off. “I’ll take care of this one. You boys best get to bed. It’s late.”  
  
“C’mon, mate,” Dean tugs Harry and the two of them follow Seamus out of the hospital wing. They’re quiet for a few minutes as they walk back down the corridors and towards the moving staircases.  
  
“You know,” Seamus says lowly, hands hidden in his robes, “It’s probably nothing. But, I can’t -- I keep thinking -- ”  
  
Dean puts a comforting hand on his shoulder. “‘S alright, Seamus. We get it.”  
  
Seamus says something Harry can’t hear. His voice shakes and Dean steps close. “‘S alright, Seamus, it’s alright, we’re right here -- ”  
  
Harry looks away uncomfortably.  
  
Eventually they get to the empty common room, where Dean steers Seamus onto a couch in front of the fire.  
  
Harry claps Seamus on the shoulder. “Alright?” he asks, not really sure what to say.  
  
Seamus nods shakily and Dean attempts a smile. “He’ll be alright,” Dean says.  
  
“Yeah.” Harry tugs at his collar. “Thanks for -- for helping with Ron.”  
  
“‘S no problem,” Dean says. “Get some sleep, Harry.”  
  
Harry heads up to his dormitory. The four-poster bed that Dean normally occupies is empty. Neville snores in his sleep. Harry cleans up, then climbs into bed. Stares up at the ceiling for a bit before finally, reluctantly, closing his eyes.  
  
Immediately, he sees faces: a pale Tonks next to a dead Remus; Lavender Brown’s small white frown, her skin translucent as a ghost; and Seamus, pale and shaking.  
  
Harry’s eyes fly back open. It’s a long while before he falls asleep.  
  
  
  
The next morning, Harry wakes up early. He hears the last of his dorm-mates heading to breakfast just as he slips out of bed. Deciding to visit Ron, Harry cleans up and pulls on a clean pair of robes.  
  
The walk to the hospital wing is uneventful. Everyone’s down at breakfast, which leaves the castle corridors quiet, the way Harry prefers. He keeps his eyes out for ghosts, but encounters none.  
  
The cot closest to the hospital wing’s entrance is the only cot occupied: Ron’s sheets have been pulled up to nearly his chin, then turned over neatly, tucked into his cot. The sheets are perfectly crisp and white. Ron’s face has been cleaned, but there’s a dribble of red under his nose. Harry pulls up a metal chair and grabs the box of tissues on the bedstand. Madam Pomfrey’s left a waste bucket full of bloodied tissues.  
  
Harry reaches out and wipes Ron’s nose. After some consideration, he also yanks out the bedsheets and rumples them a bit. Ron looks less like a corpse now.  
  
“Mr. Potter,” Madam Pomfrey says, frowning as she approaches.  
  
“Er,” Harry says, “He looked uncomfortable.”  
  
“Shouldn’t you be in class?”  
  
“Oh,” Harry says. “No. I mean. I don’t have class, right now.”  
  
Madam Pomfrey eyes him suspiciously.  
  
“How is he,” Harry says quickly.  
  
“Seems to be steady,” Pomfrey says, “I’m not quite sure what ails him. I’ve given him his vitals and some fluids, so I imagine he’ll be right as rain soon.”  
  
Harry nods.  
  
A buzz interrupts them. “Will you be alright,” Pomfrey asks, already heading towards her office, “I’ve got to take this fire call…”  
  
Harry sits by Ron’s side for a little longer, wiping his nose and Vanishing the contents of the waste bucket as it fills up. Ron snores softly. The clock tower rings and Harry decides he must head back to the dormitories to grab his books, and maybe some lunch before he heads to Potions.  
  
“Potions,” Harry groans. Ron snorts in his sleep and mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like Hermione’s name. Harry scribbles out a quick note to Ron before patting him once on the shoulder comfortingly.  
  
Quickly, Harry heads back to the shared Eighth Year common room.  
  
“Harry,” someone says as soon as Harry steps in.  
  
“Er, I’m sorry,” Harry says, “I really can’t right now Ginny -- I have to -- ”  
  
She frowns at him. “I just wanted to -- ”  
  
Yeah, so they really should, but Harry doesn’t want to and this moment, and he needs to get upstairs --  
  
They had talked a bit, after the Battle of Hogwarts. It mostly comprised of this: Ginny dragging him into a secluded corridor during the four days they were clearing the castle of bodies, asking him what was going on.  
  
“What?” Harry had said.  
  
Ginny’s expression softened. “What is this, Harry? If you can’t, tell me so.”  
  
Harry visibly hesitated, enough that Ginny had taken pity on him. “I thought so,” she sighed.  
  
“So, we’re not -- ” Harry had said. “I’m sorry, Gin, I am, it’s just -- ”  
  
_It’s just, there’s this sort of gaping hole in me, because I don’t really know what I want to do, much less who I want; I can’t really tell you what I’m doing right now because I’ve spent the last seven years of my life trying to do what everyone else was telling me --_ _  
_ _  
_ “Yeah,” she’d said. “Yeah.” She kissed him, quietly, on his temple. Harry remembers: sunlight had been streaming through a nearby window, pooling on Ginny’s bright hair; he had this beautiful girl standing in front of him and he didn’t know what to do with his hands.  
  
“Why are you avoiding me?” Ginny demands now, as they stand in the common room. She puts her hands on her hips.  
  
“We’ll talk,” Harry pleads, “C’mon Gin.”  
  
“Don’t give me that look Harry!” Her lip twitches, and she finally bursts into bright laughter. “Alright, fine, but don’t think you’re off the hook that easily!”  
  
He presses his hand against her shoulder as he passes, striding up the stairs two steps at a time.  
  
After knocking sharply on the dormitory door across from his own, Harry puts his hands on his knees and pants.  
  
“Hey,” Harry says, straightening up when the door opens. “I -- ”  
  
Malfoy frowns. “Why do you keep trying?” he asks. Behind him, the rest of the dormitory is empty, as Harry expected.  
  
“I don’t -- ”  
  
“Why do you keep trying to be my friend?” Malfoy demands.  
  
“Why do you keep trying to stop me?”  
  
“Maybe I don’t like you, Potter,” Malfoy snaps. “Have the last ten years not made that clear?”  
  
He’s about to yank the dorm door shut when Harry jams his foot in. Harry winces. “Well,” he continues anyway, “I didn’t ask to be friends. I’m here for the turmeric.”  
  
Malfoy opens the door again. “The what?”  
  
“The turmeric. We never got it. We have Potions this afternoon.”  
  
“Oh fuck,” Malfoy says.  
  
They scramble to get their things, then head downstairs. The common room’s empty when they walk through.  
  
They head out of the castle, walking briskly through the Forbidden Forest. Their long robes make twin shadows in the grass. Harry tries his best not to think of Dementors.  
  
“This is hopeless,” Malfoy pants. “We won’t find it in less than an hour.”  
  
They wander through the forest, vaguely following the trail but looking for the characteristic leafy tops of the turmeric roots. Everything in the forest is green, fresh, and clean. Harry can almost believe that they didn’t have a war when he stands here: nature has reclaimed the Giants’ footsteps, the broken trees and the wake of the fires.  
  
“We can’t just _Accio_ it?” Harry asks, stepping gingerly over a patch of white mushrooms.  
  
“And risk destroying the root?” Malfoy grimaces. “Better not.”  
  
They continue wandering the forest, ducking down, looking for turmeric to replenish Slughorn’s stores. It’s well into the afternoon, but overhead, the thick foliage shades them. Sunlight dapples the forest floor, leaking through gaps in the leaves. A slight breeze wanders through the woods. In the sparse sunlight, Malfoy’s hair looks white. Their black robes stand out against the backdrop of pale sunlight and bright green.  
  
“Anything?” Malfoy calls out. He’s wandered quite a distance away, looks small and insignificant next to the enormous tree trunks.  
  
“Nothing,” Harry says. “You?”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
They regroup on the trail. Malfoy has brown dirt on his robes.  
  
“You know,” Malfoy says. “I think I know where to find some.”  
  
“Where,” Harry frowns.  
  
Malfoy turns on his heels and heads towards the edge of the forest.  
  
“Oi,” Harry says. “Wait up, Malfoy! Wait up!”  
  
Harry catches up with Malfoy at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. The castle and the lake peek out from between the trees as Harry draws closer. The world comes back in slivers, as they walk out of the forest.  
  
“Where are you going,” Harry pants, glancing down at his watch. Almost half past noon. “We have class, soon.”  
  
“I’m well aware,” Malfoy says dryly. “Come on.” He glances up at the castle and the clock tower. “We’ll be quick.”  
  
Harry follows Malfoy down the path to Hogsmeade. The path is well-worn in stone as well as Harry’s mind, now.  
  
“You can’t be serious,” Harry says. He’s slightly out of breath. So that he won’t seem so, Harry forcibly evens his breathing.  
  
“I’m nearly certain,” Malfoy says.  
  
Hogsmeade looks more welcoming, in the daylight. The shops are all open, not quite bustling with customers, but there are patrons heading in and out of the shops. Harry and Malfoy draw a few eyes but they walk quickly through the village, so as to avoid their conversation and speculation.  
  
Aberforth speaks to a witch by the bar, their voice rumbling in the otherwise empty tavern. Both Harry and Malfoy duck down as they head towards the back of the bar. The door swings shut and they Apparate on the spot.  
  
As always, they land a few yards away from the trail that leads to the cabin. Instead of heading towards the trail and then the cabin, however, Malfoy turns away. “Just this way,” he calls over his shoulder. Malfoy shoulders determinedly through the thin forest.  
  
Harry sighs, then follows.  
  
They pick their way through the undergrowth; it’s rather difficult with robes, and Harry voices aloud as much. Malfoy’s indifferent reply comes floating back: something vaguely rude that ends with a scathing, _Potter_.  
  
“Hey,” Harry says, a while later, “Hey.” He ducks down to examine a leafy green plant closely. “Malfoy. Take a look.”  
  
“Merlin’s beard,” Malfoy says, pushing through the undergrowth as he comes close. “Saint Potter can actually see. Call the press.”  
  
Harry waits until he gets close, then shoves him.  
  
They set about to pulling up the turmeric: by hand, because if they do so by magic, Malfoy claims it might destroy the root.  
  
“We’re going to be late,” Malfoy says after they finish pulling up enough turmeric to fill his empty sack.  
  
They Apparate back to the Hog’s Head. “Actually,” Harry says, before Malfoy pushes open the back door to the tavern.  
  
“What is it now?” Malfoy sighs.  
  
“There’s a portrait in there, of Ariana Dumbledore -- ”  
  
“I beg your pardon, who?”  
  
“We can use it. To get back to the castle.”  
  
Malfoy’s lip twitches. “And why haven’t you mentioned this before?”  
  
Harry pauses. “We used it,” Harry says haltingly, “During the war. I didn’t want to -- I mean,” Harry shoves his wand into his robes. Malfoy watches him, then says. “Alright.” Malfoy doesn’t move though, so Harry steps forward and pushes open the door. Out of paranoia, Harry casts a Disillusionment charm over the two of them.  
  
Aberforth’s still deep in conversation, doesn’t notice when the door swings open and shut without a sound. Harry grabs what he imagines to be Malfoy’s wrist and walks towards the portrait of Ariana Dumbledore, which is conveniently tucked behind a jut in the wall, hidden from the view of the bar.  
  
“This way,” Harry says.  
  
Harry stops in front of Ariana’s portrait, and then removes their Disillusionment charm. “Hello,” he says quietly. “Can we -- ”  
  
Ariana smiles serenely and Harry tries not to think back on that time, six months ago, when she smiled the same smile.  
  
She disappears and Harry motions towards the tunnel. Harry and Malfoy take the tunnel to the Room of Requirement. About halfway through, Harry reaches out to tug Malfoy along, since he’s slowed down. “We’ll be late,” Harry says.  
  
As if Malfoy had forgotten about class, he suddenly speeds up.  
  
They race down the seventh floor corridor, down the steps to the dungeons.  
  
“Sorry,” Harry gasps, as they burst into the classroom. Slughorn looks away from his lecture.  
  
“Oh!” Slughorn says, “Mr. Potter, Mr. Malfoy, come in, come in!”  
  
Hermione looks up at them, but that’s all the welcome they get.  
  
Since there’s only one desk left, Malfoy slides in next to Harry. Almost inevitably, their shoulders bump.  
  
Because he didn’t have breakfast, and because he doesn’t have Arithmancy next, Harry heads back downstairs, towards the kitchen, after class. The giant pear giggles and chirps when Harry tickles it. The door swings open and Harry steps in.  
  
Almost immediately, he’s basked in the warmth of the kitchen: the hearths and ovens crackle and pop loudly, throwing red firelight onto the brick walls and stone floor; house elves scuttle to and fro; the sound of metal clanking and magic sizzling fills the air.  
  
“Hello,” Harry says to the kitchen.  
  
“Mr. Potter,” squeaks a house elf. On closer inspection, it’s Winky.  
  
“Er, hello Winky,” Harry says.  
  
“Mr. Potter,” chime in several other house elves, looking up from their work.  
  
“Please don’t stop on my account,” Harry says, “I’m just here for some sandwiches, maybe. I was just feeling a bit peckish -- ”  
  
“Say no more, Mr. Potter,” Winky says, yanking Harry into a wooden chair with surprising strength. “Winky knows just the thing for Mr. Potter.”  
  
The single wooden table in the kitchen soon is laden with platters of egg custard, treacle tart, and a variety of sandwiches. Harry eats and tries not to think of Dobby.  
  
He’s finishing up a piece of turkey when he remembers that Malfoy hasn’t had breakfast either. Without thinking too much of it, Harry asks Winky to get some sandwiches to Malfoy as well. “If you could just get it to him, when he’s alone -- ”  
  
“Winky can do that, Mr. Potter!” Winky nods eagerly.  
  
Harry enjoys the house elves' cooking the next morning as well, albeit in the Great Hall over breakfast. He sits next to Malfoy and across from Hermione and Neville.  
  
“I visited him yesterday,” Hermione says, cutting into her egg, “He was awake, and seemed alright, but Madam Pomfrey wasn’t keen on letting him leave.”  
  
Neville nods and sips his pumpkin juice. “Looked a bit peaky when we brought him in a few days ago. Reckon it shouldn’t be long before he’s out.”  
  
“Ron?” Harry asks.  
  
Hermione nods.  
  
A chattering and hooting interrupts them as the morning mail flies in. A smallish, brown package wrapped up with white string lands near Neville’s sausages with a plop. “Oh!” he says delightfully, reaching for the package. He plucks it apart as Harry polishes off his eggs. To Harry’s right, Malfoy butters his toast.  
  
Hermione pulls open her copy of the _Daily Prophet_. Her face pales as she reads.  
  
“Let me see,” Harry says, putting down his fork. “Hermione.”  
  
She looks up. “Oh,” she says faintly, “I don’t know -- ”  
  
“Hermione -- ”  
  
She hands the paper over. “They had him,” she says. “They had him cornered in a safehouse, but he -- ”  
  
“Who?” Neville looks up from his latest purchase from the Weasley’s joke shop, a box of sorts that shoots out insects: some chocolate, some real, at the press of a button.  
  
“Yaxley,” Malfoy looks up from his own copy of the _Prophet_.  
  
Harry skims the article quickly: Yaxley was cornered in a Death Eater safehouse up north, and the Aurors were closing in when he blew up the whole safehouse, taking out himself and two Aurors, injuring another three.  
  
“Christ,” Neville mumbles, pushing away his package. He rubs his hands over his face. Though the Great Hall is teeming with energy and students, breakfast seems darker than it was a minute ago.  
  
That night, Harry waits in the common room until Ginny and Hermione come back.  
  
“Anything?” he asks, looking up from his Transfigurations’ essay.  
  
They shake their heads. Hermione says her goodnights and heads to the hospital wing with a copy of the _Prophet_ tucked under her arm. Harry collapses into an armchair in front of the fire; he knows he won’t be able to rest tonight.  
  
Ginny sighs and plops into the remaining couch. She rummages in her bookbag for a bit then pulls out a package of Jelly Slugs. “Want one?”  
  
Harry shakes his head.  
  
“You’re worked up about the Yaxley case,” Ginny guesses, folding her legs up underneath her. She puts a Jelly Slug between her teeth and yanks. Harry watches her. Ron eats Jelly Slugs the same way.  
  
“I just wish I could do something,” Harry says.  
  
She chews thoughtfully. “You are.”  
  
“I wish I could do more,” Harry corrects himself. “Yaxley’s dead but so are two Aurors. And Yaxley was on the run with Rowle, so they haven’t found him yet.”  
  
“They’ll find him.”  
  
Harry pulls a face. “At what cost? The Auror ranks are already thin enough.”  
  
“They have us. And all the professors here, and the rest of the Order.” Ginny sits up. “It’ll be enough, Harry.”  
  
Harry runs his hands through his hair. “I hope so.”  
  
She looks at him. “Have you been sleeping well?”  
  
“Not really,” he admits. “Can’t sleep.”  
  
“You should see Madam Pomfrey for some Sleeping Draught.”  
  
“I -- ” It isn’t a bad idea. “Alright.”  
  
“Up you get,” she says, standing all too quickly for the early -- or late, depending on how you look at it -- hour. “We’ll go together. I wanted to see Ron as well.”  
  
“You know,” Harry says as they make their way down a moving staircase. They jump over a trick step in unison. “I saw Lavender, a few days ago.”  
  
“Lavender Brown.”  
  
“Yeah. She was floating through the corridor when we brought Ron to the hospital wing.”  
  
Ginny makes a noise of interest. They reach the hospital wing and Ginny opens the wide door.  
  
“Oh, hullo,” Ron looks up. Hermione’s sitting next to him, holding his hand.  
  
“It’s rather late for visitors, is it not?” Madam Pomfrey says sternly. Harry glances at his watch.  
  
“Sorry,” Ginny says, “Harry only wanted some Sleeping Draught, and we figured we’d visit Ron as well.”  
  
Madam Pomfrey lets up after a long moment. “Alright,” she acquiesces finally, “I’ll be out with the Draught in a moment. But you must go back to bed after that. I understand that the Eighth Years no longer have a curfew,” Madam Pomfrey looks at Ginny sternly, “But the rest of the students still do, and must stick to it.”  
  
Ginny has the decency to look somewhat guilty.  
  
“Ron,” Harry says, sitting near the cot. Hermione has wads of tissues in her hands, bloodied ones in the right, clean ones in the left. Harry Vanishes the dirty ones for her. “You alright?”  
  
He shrugs miserably. “Pomfrey said she couldn’t find anything wrong with me. Must just be the flu. Took some Pepper-Up -- ”  
  
“A lot of Pepper-Up,” Hermione interjects.  
  
“But Pomfrey said I couldn’t take too much.”  
  
“Quite right,” Hermione mumbles.  
  
“At least it isn’t spattergroit,” Ron brightens. “And besides, I get to get out of shift with Terry Boot.”  
  
“Terry Boot’s alright,” Ginny pipes in, sitting at the foot of Ron’s bed. She pulls out a box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans.  
  
Ron gives her a suspicious look before turning back to Harry. “Boot’s alright, but he drives me mad, sometimes.”  
  
Ginny flicks a white jelly bean at him.  
  
At that time, Madam Pomfrey returns from her office. “Mr. Potter,” she says, and hands him a vial of Sleeping Draught.  
  
“Thanks,” he says. With no other reason to linger, he and Ginny head back to the common room with Hermione in tow, all under Pomfrey’s watchful gaze.  
  
  
  
Eight strikes of the clock tower.  
  
“I’m off.”  
  
“See you, Harry!”  
  
“Later, mate.”  
  
Harry steps out of the common room and Malfoy joins him as they walk to the Hog’s Head. Harry doesn’t mention the secret tunnel, so they take the circuitous route, down the castle, out the front doors and on the stone path up to Hogsmeade.  
  
They get to the back of the Hog’s Head and Apparate to the Order’s safehouse. “I’ll take the inside,” Malfoy says as usual.  
  
“I’ll take the outside,” Harry says. “I might be a little longer than usual. I want to have a look around.”  
  
Malfoy grunts and disappears into the cabin. He comes out after a few seconds with a lantern for Harry. Harry takes it and sets off.  
  
Darkness quickly sets in and Harry floats his lantern in front of him, leaving his wand free. He rounds around the house: the cabin is a few meters away from the edge of the cliff, which overlooks a roiling ocean. Harry stays well away from the edge but picks up the dirt trail that follows the coast, further up.  
  
With his left hand, Harry trails his fingers over the wards. It was a tricky bit of spellwork; Harry was there when McGonagall and Hermione set up the string of wards. Under his touch, the ward pulses warm and soft. It isn’t detectable to the eye unless Harry waves his wand over it: then it turns a faint purple, glowing in the night.  
  
If there are intruders, the wards automatically send that signal back to the safehouse, where the silver bell resting by the door will ring.  
  
Harry walks up along the coast, following the ward lines. They go up for miles and miles, looping around the perimeter of the cabin but stretching farther than the eye can see, before curving around to encompass a large expanse of land in every direction. This is the farthest that Harry’s ever been.  
  
The trees grow thicker, taller, and closer together here, offering more vegetation and coverage, Harry notices, as he steps away from the cliffside, the wards, and towards the forest. A thin trail winds through the woods, taking him in deeper until the cliffside is consumed by the trees. Harry walks for a while, lost in thought.  
  
Birds chirp in the air. It’s beginning to get chilly, and Harry’s grateful for the fact that his lantern floats in front of him, because that means he can stuff his hands into his robes.  
  
The trail takes a sharp right, and Harry follows it until he stumbles upon the clearing.  
  
A few yards away, tucked in the thicket of trees, emerges a pale lake.  
  
“Potter?”  
  
Harry whirls around -- he smashes the lantern into the ground and points his wand directly at Malfoy’s face.  
  
Malfoy takes a step back. “It’s me.”  
  
Harry holds his stance for a minute, before whirling back and looking at the lake.  
  
Cold. It looks cold. Moonlight dances across its still surface.  
  
Malfoy steps closer; Harry grabs Malfoy’s arm. “Do you -- do you see anything?”  
  
“There’s -- it’s just a lake, Potter, there’s nothing there.”  
  
Harry’s heart thrums in his chest; his fingers around Malfoy’s arm, around his own wand.  
  
“Hey,” Malfoy says. Harry turns. Malfoy’s face swims into Harry’s vision. Malfoy’s frowning. “What do you see?”  
  
Harry blinks. “I thought I saw a Patronus.”  
  
“Right,” Malfoy says. “We should get back.”  
  
Out of habit, Harry checks his watch. Almost ten. He’s been walking for nearly two hours.  
  
The way back is quicker with Malfoy tugging on Harry’s arm.  
  
“Potter,” Malfoy keeps asking, face floating back into Harry’s vision now and again. “Potter?”  
  
“I’m right here,” Harry says, confused. “You don’t have to keep asking.”  
  
Malfoy doesn’t stop pausing every few minutes -- poking his head in front of Harry and waving his hand about, as if to make sure Harry were still awake -- until they return to the safehouse. It’s so warm inside, Harry almost feels cold.  
  
Malfoy all but manhandles Harry into the cabin, steering him towards the kitchen and arranging him onto a wooden chair, facing the crackling fire. The metal bucket is back, rocking gently. Inside is most likely the stone -- the dragon’s egg.  
  
Open on the table are several yellowing books. Harry looks at them, unseeing.  
  
Sitting down on the chair across the table, Malfoy leans in. “Potter?”  
  
Harry looks up. “Are these yours?”  
  
“Some.” Malfoy looks down. “I’ve just been doing something reading.”  
  
“Yeah,” Harry says. “I can tell.”  
  
Malfoy taps his chin thoughtfully. “Take a look,” he says eventually. An open book floats over to Harry.  
  
It’s a limited edition of _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_. “Dragon,” Harry reads, “M.O.M. Classification: XXXXX. Probably the most famous of all magical beasts, dragons are among the most difficult to hide.” Harry snorts. “Neither male nor female should be approached by any but highly skilled and trained wizards. Dragon hide, blood, heart, liver, and horn all have highly magical properties, but dragon eggs are defined as Class A Non-Tradeable Goods.  
  
“There are ten breeds of dragon, though these have been known to interbreed on occasion, producing rare hybrids. Pure-bred dragons are as follows.”  
  
Harry skims the list, none catching his eye, except: “The Swedish Short-Snout is an attractive silvery-blue dragon whose skin is sought after for the manufacture of protective gloves and shields. The flame that issues from its nostrils is a brilliant blue and can reduce timber and bone to ash in a matter of seconds.”  
  
Harry looks up. “Remind me again,” he says, “Why we’re doing this?”  
  
Malfoy sniffs. “Why not? Besides, it’s in my blood. My great-great grandfather spent a summer in Moldova breeding dragons. It’s an art.”  
  
“So this one,” Harry jerks his head in direction of the fireplace, “D’you reckon it’s a Swedish Short-Snout?”  
  
“I think not,” Malfoy says. He flicks his wand and _Fantastic Beasts_ floats back over to his side of the table. “Look at this.” Malfoy pushes over a thick, large tome that resembles an encyclopedia more than a book. It’s open to an illustrated page, where Harry watches a dragon peek out of an eggshell.  
  
“It’s cute,” Harry says.  
  
“Look at the coloring. On the shell.”  
  
Harry looks.  
  
“Doesn’t look like ours, right? That’s the egg of a pure-bred Short-Snout.” Malfoy flips the page. On this page is a darker blue egg, resembling the one they have sitting in their metal bucket at the moment. “This one looks more similar. It’s a mix of a Norwegian Ridgeback and Swedish Short-Snout. I’ll bet that ours is a mix like that.”  
  
“Hang on, why do we always add water to the bucket? We’re not boiling the thing, are we?”  
  
“Don’t be absurd, Potter. It’s not nearly hot enough to boil a dragon’s egg. No, the water’s because the egg’s blue, and the dragon’ll be blue. Haven’t I told you this?”  
  
“Sure, but what does that mean?”  
  
Malfoy fixes Harry with a look.  
  
“Well, it’s not a necessity, but the old dragon breeders used to group eggs into one of four categories. Earth, water, fire, air. The brown and black ones were earth, the blue ones and green ones water, the red and orange ones fire, and the white ones air.”  
  
“So?”  
  
“So dragons are elemental beings, Potter. If you had a red egg, you’d put it in a bed of embers. If you had a brown egg, you’d rest it in the earth, and so on.” Malfoy shrugs.  
  
Harry eyes him. “And you know this because?”  
  
“Septimus Malfoy kept rather thorough journals.”  
  
“Sept -- your great-great grandfather.”  
  
“Correct.”  
  
“So we keep this egg in water. Because it’s blue.”  
  
“It’s an elemental association,” Malfoy rolls his eyes. “Besides, the Ridgeback hunts aqueous prey, so,” Malfoy shrugs.  
  
“Someone bred this egg and left it -- in the forest you reckon?”  
  
“I’d wager that it was the Dark Lord,” Malfoy says stiffly. It’s the first time he’s mentioned anything related to the war -- from the last day of fighting to the long months of rebuilding Hogwarts to now. “Or one of his followers.”  
  
“You think,” Harry says, “You think Voldemort bred dragons.”  
  
“He was desperate,” Malfoy’s face twists into something ugly. “You should’ve seen some of the beasts he brought into the Manor.”  
  
Harry sits back in his chair and wonders what he got himself into.


	3. Out of the Shell

Smoke curls through a warm Potions classroom. Harry doodles on the edge of his textbook.   
  
To his left, Draco Malfoy scribbles out some notes on parchment paper. His elbow brushes against Harry’s robes with every letter.   
  
“Shrinking Poison,” Professor Slughorn says, “A curious little concoction. Let’s see you do your best!” He claps his hands together. “Work with your partners.”   
  
“Daisy roots,” Harry reads out of his textbook. “Shrivelfig. Caterpillar. Nettles, dried and crushed. Leech juice. Ginger root.”   
  
Malfoy flicks his wand and the fire under the cauldron on their desk sparks into existence. “Chop the daisy and ginger root.”   
  
“What am I, the assistant?”   
  
“You have the capabilities of one.”   
  
Harry rolls his eyes. At the least, Malfoy’s speaking to him more easily now. In the front of the classroom, Slughorn coughs roughly.   
  
Water bubbles in the cauldron. Malfoy stirs in the ginger root and leech juice. Harry writes their names on two vials, one for grading and one for testing. Harry’s about to take the cauldron off the fire when Slughorn doubles over.   
  
“Shit,” Harry says, looking up. “Professor Slughorn? Are you -- ” Other students voice similar concerns. Hermione steps forward. “Professor?”   
  
When Slughorn pulls his hand back, blood stains his fingers. “I think I’m unwell,” he says.   
  
Hermione and Terry Boot escort Professor Slughorn to the hospital wing. Obviously, class is dismissed. The rest of the Eighth Years trail out of class. Seamus and Hannah Abbott begin putting together a game of Quidditch.   
  
“Something’s not right,” Harry says, as he finishes stuffing his books into his sack. They follow the rest of the students out of class.   
  
Malfoy looks at him. “What do you mean?”   
  
“It’s just,” Harry gestures towards the classroom as they walk out of the dungeons, “A coincidence.”   
  
Malfoy gives him a look, then shoulders his bag and strides down the corridor.   
  
“Hey!” Harry strides to catch up with him. “Malfoy!”   
  
“Hey Harry!” Neville calls out as they walk by. “Care for a game?” Neville hesitates then asks, “You too, Malfoy?”   
  
“In a bit,” Harry waves his hand in thanks, following Malfoy as he strides past the courtyard, to the front of the castle.   
  
“Where -- where are you going?”   
  
“Why are you following me, is the real question, Potter.”   
  
Harry follows Malfoy all the way down to Hogsmeade, to the Hog’s Head Inn, to where the Apparate to the safehouse.   
  
“Why are you here?” Malfoy demands, turning on Harry as soon as they land in the woods by the cabin.   
  
Harry blinks. “Do you want me to leave?”   
  
Malfoy steps back. “What?”   
  
“‘Cause I will. If you want me to.”   
  
Malfoy recovers. Sneers. “Do what you want, Potter.”   
  
“That’s not a no,” Harry calls after him. Malfoy’s cloak billows dramatically behind him as he strides towards the cabin. It reminds Harry of Professor Snape.   
  
Soon after, Harry follows, catching the door to the safehouse just before it closes.   
  
Malfoy’s books are still splayed across the table, but pushed to the edges, to make room for a large pile of blankets at the center of the wooden table. And even though it’s midday, in the hearth a fire licks the bottom of their metal bucket. It rocks gently in the flames.     
  
Harry sits on a wooden chair. “I think it’s close,” Malfoy declares, apropos of nothing, as he prods the flames with a jet of light from his wand.   
  
“Er, what’s close?”   
  
“The egg, of course.” Harry hears _you idiot_ even though Malfoy doesn’t say it.   
  
“Close to -- ”   
  
“Hatching, of course. It was close to Hogwarts. Dropped during the battle most likely, so I’ll be it was surrounded by loads of magic.” Malfoy tilts his head to examine the fire. “Which is good for it, of course.”   
  
“Of course,” Harry says. “What are you going to name it?”   
  
“Well,” Malfoy continues on as though this were a perfectly normal conversation, “I was thinking about something related to astronomy.” In a posh accent, he says, “Corona Borealis, perhaps?”   
  
“Er, no.”   
  
“I was thinking it was a bit much, too. How about Almagest, like the mathematical and astronomical treatise on motions of stars and planetary paths?”   
  
“Er -- ”   
  
“Colmar?” Malfoy leans forward. He waves his wand and the egg floats out of the bucket and onto the blanket on the table. It steams slightly.   
  
“What’s that?”   
  
Malfoy shakes his head. “Wrong. Where’s that? It’s a city in France, in Alsace.”   
  
Harry wants to ask: _why are you doing this? Why does this matter?_ But after the war, they all have their comforts: Hermione looks ahead to the Ministry, Neville spends much of his time sorting through the Weasleys’ joke shop catalog, Ginny eats candy and plays Quidditch. Harry figures that raising a dragon is one of Malfoy’s. “Have you been there?” he asks.   
  
“Of course, Potter,” Malfoy gives him a withering look. “I wouldn’t name a dragon after a city I’ve never been to.”   
  
Before Harry can respond to that, a soft but definite squeak fills the air. “Did you hear that?” Both Harry and Malfoy look at the egg.   
  
Under their scrutiny, it wobbles. Harry takes a tentative step forward.   
  
The egg rocks, gently, before a crack suddenly appears on the stone, running lengthwise across the blue surface. “Potter,” Malfoy says, very slowly. Harry takes another step forward. Another crack appears, then another, and then another. The cracks seem to run across the egg’s surface at random, except for that fact that they all meet at the top of the egg.   
  
Another squeak fills the air. Harry watches, transfixed, the top of the shell breaks free, and a small dark head pokes out of the hole. A wet, pulsing body soon follows, and the shell cracks open. Harry recoils instinctively as the dragon snaps its jaws.   
  
The dragon is no longer than Harry’s forearm, from the tip of its snout to its pointed tail. Its scales are a deep, dark blue, not unlike the material of its shell. The dragon snorts and spreads its wings. Though they’re covered in a thin film of membrane, Harry can make out the hundreds of pulsing veins underneath. Four claws curl out at the end of each wing. Two long white fangs hang over its lip.   
  
“Hello,” Malfoy says, as it turns to inspect him. Again, the dragon makes the same squeaking noise. As it turns, Harry admires the long row of spikes running from the base of its head to the end of its tail; there’s an unusually large gap between the spines where the base of its neck meets it shoulders. “Hi. Hi Colmar.”   
  
“Malfoy,” Harry says, the absurdity of the situation finally sinking in, “Malfoy, you can’t be serious -- ” Harry falls silent when the dragon turns an intelligent, critical eye on him. After Harry stays still for a minute, the dragon evidently loses interest, and turns away, clawing at the blanket Malfoy’s lain it on as it crawls across the table.   
  
“What?” Malfoy’s gaze meets Harry’s over the dragon.   
  
“You’re -- you’re keeping it?” Harry asks, exasperated.   
  
“For now,” Malfoy says, and as the dragon did, Malfoy evidently loses interest in their conversation. “Hey, hello.” He leans over the table and inspects the dragon. When it bumps its head into the dragon encyclopedia, it squeals. Malfoy laughs -- an honest, real, genuine laugh -- and Harry stares, completely and utterly shocked at how it transforms his face.   
  
“Yes,” Malfoy says, “That’s a book.” The dragon opens its mouth pitifully in response, revealing four rows of white, serrated teeth: two rows on its bottom jaw and two on its top.   
  
Harry watches as the dragon smells Malfoy’s fingers, and nibbles gently at the pool of his sleeve. Malfoy reaches out and touches the dragon on its forehead. “Colmar.” The dragon holds Malfoy’s gaze for a moment before squealing loudly again.   
  
Harry’s qualms melt away for the moment, however, as the dragon -- Colmar -- nuzzles against Malfoy’s hand not unlike a blue cat. The dragon squeaks then meows as Malfoy scratches behind its ears then rubs its flank, respectively.   
  
A strand of loose hair falls over Malfoy’s hair, like it often does these days, since he’s taken to wearing it without product.   
  
Malfoy scoops up the dragon and it squeaks as he holds it in his hands, turning it over and examining it. “A girl,” he says after a few minutes. Colmar squeaks indignantly and in retaliation, clambers over Malfoy’s chest, claws snagging in his robes. Her wings unfurl again, flapping weakly as she sniffs Malfoy’s throat, his chin. Malfoy huffs in amusement and pries her off.   
  
Time flies after that. They spend a long while just in the cabin: Harry watches as Colmar clambers all over Malfoy, her tail snagging on the pile of blankets, swiping the table clean with one swipe. Malfoy watches Colmar, as she digs gouges into the table, climbing onto and over it.  A highlight is when she unfurls her wings and leaps from the table to Malfoy’s lap, though it takes a few Reparos to take care of the damage. Even as a baby, her claws are sharp.   
  
When Colmar finally curls in the pile of blankets to sleep, Harry realizes that he hasn’t checked his watch this whole while. “Shit,” he says, when he reads it. “We’ve missed lunch. And Charms.”   
  
Malfoy squints up at him from where he’s leaned against the table. “Do you care?”   
  
Harry looks at him. His hair is tousled, black sleeves pushed up to his elbow, and there’s a nasty scratch on his cheek -- but his eyes are sharp and his cheeks pink. He looks -- like a wild, unruly, _happy_ mess. “Not really.”   
  
They let the sleeping dragon lie, and instead work on dragon-proofing the safehouse: putting extra wards on the door, locking the windows, and the like. Though Colmar hasn’t breathed any puffs of fire yet, Harry puts on some anti-inflammatory charms just in case.   
  
“See,” Harry says, wiping his brow when they finally finish. Malfoy Transfigures the bucket into a shallow dish and fills it with a quick Aguamenti. “We don’t need Charms.”   
  
Malfoy scoffs and they lock up, peeping through the window at sleeping Colmar one last time before they leave. After they Apparate to the back of the tavern, Malfoy yanks his sleeves down, covering his Dark Mark.   
  
“Have you had a dragon before?” Harry asks, deliberately lightly, after they exit the Hog’s Head.   
  
Malfoy scowls. What’s left of his good mood seems to vanish. “So we’re going to pretend this is normal?”   
  
“What, the fact that you’re talking with me, the fact that we’re raising a dragon, or the fact that you have a Dark Mark?”   
  
You’re. You’re raising a dragon, Harry had meant to say.   
  
They pass Zonko’s and Honeydukes before Malfoy speaks again. “Peacocks,” he says curtly. “I had peacocks. And a fox, at one point. But not a dragon.”   
  
“Not really the peacocks though, right? Don’t they just sort of -- prance around?”   
  
Malfoy shrugs. They begin the climb back up to Hogwarts. “Had to feed them, put up with them. And they were irritating as hell.”   
  
“Yeah,” Harry says, bumping into Malfoy’s shoulder good-naturedly, “Rubbed off on you a bit.”   
  
Malfoy looks at him for a good minute before realizing that Harry’s joking. “Piss off,” he mumbles and shoves Harry away. Harry fights a laugh, chin tucking into his chest.   
  
“I didn’t have any pets,” Harry says. He tucks his hands into his pockets as the wind picks up. “Dudley -- my cousin -- had a crawfish at one point, but I…” he trails off, thinking of Dudley and Little Whinging. “There was this park,” Harry resumes, “And it was a pretty shit park. Rusted swing set, dried out tall grass. It was on this hill, close to nothing, really.   
  
“I went there, sometimes, when -- I went there and I’d lay out on the grass. It was tall, so it’d hide me. I was hiding from my cousin, Dudley, and once it turned dark. And I saw a bunch of fireflies.” Harry looks away, embarrassed. “Well, they’re not pets, but.” He forcibly stops himself from continuing to talk.   
  
They reach the castle soon after that. The clock tower rings as they walk into the Entrance Hall, and turn towards the staircase. The stairs take them to the third floor, where they hop off and turn to the Transfigurations classroom. Harry slips in and takes the vacant seat next to Hermione in front while Malfoy sits in the back next to Millicent Bulstrode.   
  
“Harry,” Hermione pulls her books onto her side of the desk as he sits down. “There you are. You weren’t at lunch.”   
  
“Sorry,” he says, sitting down quickly. “Lost track of time.”   
  
Hermione looks like she wants to ask another question, but thankfully, Professor McGonagall steps out and Hermione turns her attention back to her notes.   
  
Class ends and Harry and Hermione head to the hospital wing to visit Ron before dinner.   
  
“I hope he gets better soon,” Hermione says, tucking her hair back. “I’m worried. I know I shouldn’t be,” she says hastily, “But…”   
  
“Yeah,” Harry nods, “I know.”   
  
The hospital wing doors are open, but Madam Pomfrey is nowhere to be seen. Harry takes a seat next to Ron and Hermione does the same.   
  
“Hullo,” Ron says.   
  
“Well,” Harry says as he settles in. “You officially missed the most interesting class of Transfigurations.”   
  
“Did I?” Ron asks, more interested in the pumpkin pasties that Hermione procures than anything Harry’s saying.   
  
“No,” Harry says, leaning over to grab a pasty for himself. She tsks at him.   
  
“You did not,” Hermione says, “miss any Potions.”   
  
“Oh?”   
  
“Slughorn’s ill,” she says, tucking the rest of the pasties away. “Starting coughing in the middle of class and couldn’t stop. We took him to the hospital wing. You were sleeping.”   
  
Ron leans up and cranes his neck. “Where’s he?”   
  
Hermione pushes him back gently. “Not here. Madam Pomfrey gave him some Pepper-Up, then sent him back to his quarters to rest.”   
  
“Hm,” Ron says. “When are Quidditch tryouts?”   
  
“Not sure,” Harry takes over. Eighth Years can’t technically play for the Cup, so Harry hasn’t been as interested in Quidditch this year. “Think they’re this weekend.”   
  
“Think Ginny’ll be a good Captain?”   
  
“She’ll be good,” Harry says confidently.   
  
“Speaking of Ginny,” Hermione pipes in.   
  
Harry waits for her to finish but she just blinks at him expectantly.   
  
“Oh,” Harry says, looking away. “No. I mean -- it’s not like that. Anymore.”   
  
Ron grunts in acknowledgement and leans his head back. “Figured.”   
  
They chat for a little longer before Hermione and Harry head to dinner. “He’s not looking that much better,” Hermione comments as they walk.   
  
“Not yet,” Harry says. “Give him some time.”   
  
Hermione hums. “In the meantime,” she says, “Do you think you’ll be able to take over his shift with Terry Boot for me? I’ve been covering for Ron, but Hopkirk wants to fire-call tonight.”   
  
“Yeah,” Harry says. Inwardly, he thinks he should’ve thought of that sooner, instead of making Hermione take on double shifts. “Tonight. I’ll do it.”   
  
“Thanks Harry,” she says. “I usually just meet him in the common room. Since you haven’t been before, I’m sure you’ll just Side-Along.”   
  
They head to dinner, where most everyone’s settled in. Today, Millicent has taken the seat across from Malfoy. Otherwise, the benches around them are vacant.   
  
“Hello Millicent,” Hermione chirps, sitting next to her and across from where Harry sits next to Malfoy. “Malfoy.” The Slytherins hardly glance up at her greeting but Hermione doesn’t seem to mind. She chats with Harry about Hopkirk’s work, and, surprisingly, Millicent makes a few insightful comments. Malfoy says nothing.   
  
Back at the common room, Harry tries to get in some reading, but to no avail. He ends up watching Hannah Abbott play Ernie MacMillan in a vicious game of Exploding Snap. By Boot comes over, his textbook is forgotten.   
  
“Harry!” Terry Boot exclaims, as though they hadn’t seen each other at dinner. “Hey, you ready?”   
  
Harry forces a smile and they exit the common room together.   
  
As they walk down to Hogsmeade Village, they chat a bit about the last Puddlemere United game before Terry brings up the topic of life after Hogwarts. From their conversation, Harry learns that Boot wants to work at Gringotts. When he turns the conversation to Harry, Harry brings up Quidditch again.   
  
They reach the Hog’s Head Inn. Terry and Harry both wave to Aberforth before heading to the back of the tavern.   
  
“Side-Along?” Harry asks and Boot smiles and sticks out his arm. It’s all very polite and agreeable.   
  
When the dizziness subsides, Harry blinks to see a quaint neighborhood, not at all unlike Little Whinging. “Oh,” he says. “This is -- ”   
  
“Nice, isn’t it?” Terry grins. “We’re just over here.”   
  
Terry gestures to a brick house that looks essentially identical to the others. They walk up the stone walkway. When they reach the front door, Terry unlocks it with an Alohomora while Harry resists the urge to wipe his feet on the way in.   
  
After checking the wards, they sit in the living room. Terry continues talking all the while -- about his future ambitions, his family -- and the worst thing is, he’s dreadfully cheery about the whole thing. Harry begins to see what Ron was on about.   
  
Exhaustion starts to creep on Harry as the clock crawls towards one. When it’s finally time to go, Harry is eager to leave. They Apparate back to Aberforth’s tavern.   
  
“Want a pint before we go?” Terry asks, “Sometimes we have a drink with Aberforth before heading back,” because, of course.   
  
Harry politely declines and continues to participate in small-talk on the way back to the castle.   
  
Thoroughly exhausted from hatching a dragon and putting up with Terry Boot both in a day, Harry clambers into his bed and falls asleep almost immediately. He doesn’t dream.   
  
  
  
Tickling the pear that leads to the kitchen, Harry makes a mental note to remind himself to ask Hermione how to knit. Harry could learn a few things, and make a few things as well, for the house-elves, seeing how often he’s been here already since the start of term. He can imagine how often he’ll be in here from now on.   
  
“Winky,” Harry calls out. “I need a favor.”   
  
Harry emerges from the kitchens, uncomfortably full, about half an hour later. In his stomach, he’s digesting the last of a rather delicious cottage pie. In his hands, he carries a single, large, raw chicken. Harry stops outside of the kitchen and looks at the chicken. He Transfigures it into a cloak for the moment, though it still smells suspiciously of meat.   
  
Harry strides quickly to the Hog’s Head, and Apparates to the safehouse. Maybe, he thinks to himself, he could also take a page from Terry Boot’s book, and have a pint with Aberforth sometime, just so that he’s not popping in and out of the tavern so often without buying anything.   
  
Lost in thought, Harry doesn’t notice that the cabin’s front door is open until he’s walking through them. “Oh,” he says. “Good morning.”   
  
It’s a Saturday, and rather early at that, too. He hadn’t expected Malfoy to be here at this time. But then again, there aren’t many other places Harry can imagine Malfoy going on the weekend.   
  
“Hello,” Malfoy spares, then looks back down.   
  
“Er,” Harry says. “What’s all this?”   
  
It seems as though Malfoy’s turned the small kitchen into a small Potions classroom: there’s a pewter cauldron smoking in the sink, and a few wooden racks holding up tubes and vials. Harry thinks he sees a chopping board and silver knife.   
  
Malfoy looks up again from where he’s hunched over the sink. “Oh, just… something.”   
  
Harry raises an eyebrow.   
  
Colmar yips from where she’s climbing the leg of the wooden table. Harry walks over to say hello, and she sniffs his hand before biting it.   
  
“I’m going to make some potions for Colmar. Nothing complicated, just a few things to make sure she doesn’t get sick.”   
  
“Right,” Harry says faintly. He pulls his hand away from Colmar: she’s left two tiny indentations in the shape of her teeth, but Harry imagines her bite’ll draw blood soon.   
  
He watches Malfoy step around the kitchen for a bit. His sleeves are pushed up again, rolled up right below his elbow. His skin is pale in contrast to his black Dark Mark. “Do you want me to take a look at that?”   
  
“At what?” Malfoy says absently.   
  
“Your cheek.” Harry gestures to the scratch still prominent on Malfoy’s cheek from yesterday. “I should’ve offered sooner.”   
  
“It’s just a scratch,” Malfoy says, eyes still fixed on his potion. After stirring clockwise five times, Malfoy looks up. His eyes catch on the cloak. “What’s that?”   
  
“Oh!” Harry sets the chicken-cum-cloak on the kitchen counter, away from any potions and poisons. Harry Transfigures it back to its original self. “I got this from the kitchens before you came.”   
  
Colmar squeaks and lets go of the table leg, her thin wings unfolding to ease her glide to the floor. She paces over next to Harry’s leg and sniffs.   
  
“A chicken.”   
  
“For Colmar.”   
  
Malfoy hands Harry the silver knife.   
  
After hacking the chicken to pieces, Harry scoops the meat onto a plate and sits at the wooden table. “C’mere,” he says to Colmar. She blinks at him intelligently. He scoops her up and deposits her onto the table.   
  
Harry tentatively holds out the first piece of chicken. Her scaly neck uncoils as she sniffs, then snaps as she lunges forward and snatches the meat from Harry’s hand.   
  
The whole plate is soon consumed, and Colmar sniffs Harry’s empty hand. “Sorry,” he says, “I’m afraid that’s all there is.”   
  
Malfoy finishes his potion this moment, and floats the metal dish over to the table. Colmar sticks her head into it immediately, only to find it empty.   
  
With one hand, Malfoy reaches for a bottle of milk Harry hadn’t seen before; with the other, he grabs a vial full of his potion. “Hold her back for a second, will you?”   
  
As Harry securely holds Colmar, Malfoy mixes the potion and the milk into the dish. He Vanishes both empty containers when he’s finished. “Go on then,” he tells the dragon.   
  
After finishing both her milk and meat, Colmar seems to be content sprawling out over the table. They move the books to the other side of the room.   
  
They spend most of the morning and much of the afternoon watching Colmar alternatively crawl and glide around the house. She can’t sustain herself in the air for more than a few seconds at a time, but her stride has gotten quick.   
  
After a few hours, Colmar’s all but mapped out the entirety of the cabin. She nudges the front door open with her snout and Harry and Malfoy follow as she leaves the safehouse for the first time.   
  
Malfoy leads her off the doorstep, towards the soft dirt trail and the thin woods, either right next to her or no more than a few steps in front of her. Harry’s content to watch as he ambles behind them, as they wander into the foliage, Colmar scratching at bark and Malfoy’s pale hand trailing over the leaves behind him.   
  
The baby blue dragon is easy to find in against the green leaves and brown dirt. Her scales are hard and crystal-like, catching the sunlight. The slight serration on the inside of her claws enables her to climb almost a meter high against the forest trees, before she spreads her wings and glides down.   
  
Honestly, it’s strange, being here. Because a year ago, Harry never would’ve thought he’d be spending the year after the war at school -- at Hogwarts. He never would’ve thought life could be like this, so close to what it was before -- and yet so different.   
  
Harry’s thoughts are interrupted by the sight of Malfoy emerging out of a thicket of trees with Colmar curled up on his shoulder.   
  
“Alright?”   
  
“Fine,” Malfoy says. “She’s tired.”   
  
They walk back to the cabin in a companionable silence. Harry hadn’t realized how far they’d gone. A little longer, and they might’ve approached the lake he found a few days ago.   
  
Before leaving, they recheck the wards again. Malfoy brings out another bottle of milk and pours it onto the dish, leaving that near the sink. Colmar nestles into her pile of blankets on the wooden table. Harry leaves the chicken bones on the cutting board near the sink but Malfoy takes the silver knife along with the rest of his potions supplies and puts them away. “There,” he says. “She can gnaw on the bones ‘til I get back.”   
  
By the time they Apparate back to the Hog’s Head, it’s well into the afternoon.   
  
“D’you wanna grab a pint?”   
  
“We’re not friends,” Malfoy says, automatically. He continues walking.   
  
“Yeah, alright,” Harry says, cheeks pink. Behind them, the door to the Hog’s Head slams shut. “I was just -- we’ve been out all day so I just wanted a drink, mate, it’s not -- ”   
  
They continue walking. The air has turned cool and crisp. Harry wonders when it’ll snow.   
  
They pass the headquarters of Wizarding Wireless Network when Malfoy bites out, “Fine.” He turns and heads back the way they came. Harry quickly follows.   
  
It’d be quicker to continue on and find a table at the Three Broomsticks, but Madam Rosmerta’s probably still working, so Harry follows Malfoy back to the Hog’s Head Inn. As they step in, an unusual wave of clamor rises up to meet them.   
  
“Aberforth!” a woman in a large fur coat hollers. “It’s been a while, old friend.”   
  
Most likely, Aberforth yells something back, but Harry and Malfoy duck towards the back of the inn automatically, near the jut in the wall that neatly hides Ariana’s portrait and half of the table they sit at.   
  
From here, it’s easy to make out a band of travellers. There’s about a dozen of them, either warming up by the fire or leaning over the bar and conversing.   
  
“Where d’you reckon they’re from?” Harry mutters, not really expecting an answer.   
  
“The north,” Malfoy says, in a considering tone. He watches the travellers. “Look at their coats.”   
  
They both look for a minute, then Malfoy rises and heads towards the bar. Harry watches him speak to Aberforth for a minute. The bartender nods his white beard and waves his hand to acknowledge Harry in the back. When Malfoy returns, he’s holding two foaming tankards of butterbeer. Harry thanks him as Malfoy slides the glass over the rickety table to him.   
  
“From Norway,” Malfoy says, turning back to the watch the bar even over the rim of his butterbeer. “I could tell by their accent. I bet they’re here to talk about the Ministry.”   
  
Harry sips at his warm drink. His glass is not unclean. “Odd place to stop though, isn’t it?”   
  
“Station’s just a short walk down the road. I’ll wager that they’re on the clock. Looking for a quick drink before their next train leaves.”   
  
Halfway through their drinks, Aberforth waves off the travellers to bring out a platter of lumpy sausage rolls. “Here,” he says gruffly, dropping it on their table. He maneuvers around them and pulls up a stool. “You eat up.”   
  
“We didn’t order -- ”   
  
“Yeah, yeah,” Aberforth says, “I know.”   
  
Harry only waits a minute before reaching out and eating.   
  
“Tell me,” Aberforth leans back, resting his elbows on the table behind him. “How are your shifts?”   
  
With Harry’s mouth full of sausage, Malfoy says, “Fine. There’s been nothing so far.”   
  
Aberforth strokes his beard, musingly. “Heard Horace’s taken ill.”   
  
“Yeah,” Harry says, sipping at his butterbeer. “He got sick yesterday, couldn’t teach.”   
  
Aberforth harrumphs.   
  
“What,” Malfoy says.   
  
“In all the years I’ve known Slughorn, never once have I seen the man sick. He’s paranoid, and never lets a day go by without drinking one of his potions or concoctions or something or anything.” Aberforth leans in. “You really think it’s an illness?”   
  
“Ron,” Harry says, “Our classmate, my friend -- you’ve met him -- he’s been sick for ages.”   
  
Aberforth narrows his eyes. “Now, you boys sure you haven’t seen anything? Nothing out of the ordinary? Anything at all?”   
  
“No,” Harry says. “Nothing. If we did, the first thing we’d do would be to tell McGonagall.”   
  
Aberforth leans back. “Alright,” he says. “Fine. Finish up now, I got a bar to tend to.” He rises.   
  
“Thank you,” Harry says, “for everything.”   
  
As soon as Aberforth engages in conversation with the travellers again, Malfoy leans over the table. “I’m not so sure Slughorn’s the only paranoid one.”   
  
“Everyone is,” Harry agrees. “There’s just been a war.”   
  
Malfoy grunts and grabs a sausage roll. For a few minutes, all that Harry hears is the sound of chewing and sipping from their table, as well as the booming voices and hearty laughter coming from the bar.   
  
Harry drains the last of his butterbeer. “Colmar,” he says. “In France. What’s it like?”   
  
Malfoy regards him with a suspicious look. “What’s it to you?”   
  
“Can’t be taking care of a dragon whose name is a city I dunno anything about, can I?”   
  
Malfoy picks apart his sausage roll. “It’s an old town,” Malfoy says finally, “It’s historical. Some parts of it look -- medieval, I suppose. There’s cobblestone streets that lead through the old houses and shops. It used to be a merchant city, so the houses overlook canals. No one uses them for trading anymore, but,” Malfoy scoffs, “they call it _le petit Venice._  Little Venice, because of that.   
  
“It’s quiet, the canals aren’t anything like Venice. Red flowers and vines grow all around the canals, around the houses. Many cafes lines the streets. Typical, I suppose.”   
  
Malfoy talks about the quaint town as he picks at his food -- the pitched roofs, pastel stucco, and aged timber. He describes an apothecary overlooking a canal, which boils potions and poisons made from ingredients found in the nearby countryside.   
  
By the time Harry finishes asking his questions -- _how long did you stay? You speak French? Did you buy anything at the apothecary?_ To which the answers were: _six weeks_ ; _yes, of course, Potter_ followed by a withering look; and a smug grin, respectively -- they’ve polished off the last of the sausage rolls and drained their mugs of drink.   
  
Harry leaves a few coins on the table next to the empty plate as they finish up. “Is that where your mum is now?” Harry asks, quietly.   
  
Malfoy brushes invisible dust from his trousers before saying, “Yeah.”   
  
They head back the castle, comfortably full and much warmer than when they left. It’s a beautiful day outside. As they approach the castle and the lake, Harry sees a few figures basking in the sun by the shore. Upon closer inspection, the figures are several Eighth Year students.   
  
“Harry!” one of them waves, clearly calling him over.   
  
“Well,” Harry says to Malfoy. “I’ll see you?”   
  
Malfoy jerks his head in something resembling a nod, then turns back to head towards the castle. Harry watches him for a few moments before jogging over to the lakeside.   
  
Dean, Seamus, Ginny, and Hermione have arranged themselves in the shade of the wide tree, while Terry Boot tosses a Quaffle with Ernie Macmillan. Luna’s ankle deep in the lakewater, humming to herself.   
  
“Was that Malfoy,” Dean asks from where he leans against the tree. His voice is curious, nothing more.   
  
“Yeah,” Harry tosses his bag next to Ginny and sits next to her. Seamus looks up from where his head’s in Dean’s lap. “Hey Harry.”   
  
“Hey Seamus, hey Hermione,” Harry says. “Hi Gin.”   
  
Ginny grins at him.   
  
“Where’s Neville?”   
  
“Not feeling too well,” she says, “He’s resting up.”   
  
“Too bad Slughorn’s not up to it either, eh?” Seamus says, tilting his head back. “I was looking forward to his parties.”   
  
“You sure you would’ve been invited?” Ginny raises a brow.   
  
“Yeah,” Seamus says, “Sure. Heroes of the Wizarding World, ain’t we?”   
  
Dean replies, “You keep telling that yourself, mate.”   
  
“Hey,” Ginny says, sitting up, “Let’s throw our own party.”   
  
“I don’t recall you being an Eighth Year,” Seamus tells the sky.   
  
“Oh, shove off, it’ll be fun!   
  
“Hey Harry! Catch!” Harry looks up when Ernie Macmillan tosses him the Quaffle. Ernie and Terry grin at the lot of them before collapsing into the soft grass in the sun a few feet away. Harry smiles and tucks the Quaffle by his side.   
  
Hermione looks up from her paper.   
  
“You think it’s a bad idea,” Harry guesses.   
  
“What’s a bad idea?” Ernie asks.   
  
“No,” Hermione says thoughtfully, “Actually, it might do us some good. A chance to get everyone together, with no ill feeling.”   
  
“Oi, what’s this?” Ernie flops onto his back to look at them.   
  
“We’re planning a party,” Seamus says. “You in?”   
  
“Fuck yea,” Terry Boot says.   
  
Dean nudges Hermione. “Everyone’s together now.”   
  
“No,” Hermione says, “I mean -- ”   
  
“Room of Requirement?” Ernie suggests, clearly taking planning into his own hands. “That way we could get butterbeer from Aberforth.”   
  
The conversation lapses into several trains of thought: Ernie and Seamus bounce ideas off each other while Dean, Hermione, and Terry are caught up in another conversation.   
  
“Hey,” Ginny turns to Harry.   
  
“Hi,” he says.   
  
“Quidditch tryouts tomorrow. You’ll be there?”   
  
Harry leans back against the tree. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Ginny.” He means it.   
  
They chat and argue and laugh. They watch Luna dancing on the sand, the entirety of the lake unspooling out behind her. The gray mountains frame the lake and the sky. Harry thinks he can hear birds singing. He tilts his head back and breathes in the clean air. Content. 


	4. Into the Fire

Before he knows it, two mostly idyllic months have passed, save for two things:  
  
One -- Harry doesn’t know what he wants to do after Hogwarts. He’s vaguely thinking of being an Auror because that’s what he and Ron had talked about. But now Ron’s sick, and doesn’t seem as though he’s recovering any time soon. Harry misses him.  
  
Hermione keeps meeting with Hopkirk and it seems as though Hopkirk’ll offer her a job any minute. “Not _yet,_ ” Hermione keeps saying when they bring it up, “I haven’t even taken my NEWTs!” After a few shifts with Terry Boot, Harry eventually, grudgingly admits that he’s a good guy, even if he is a bit cheery all the time. Harry takes him to the hospital wing and Ron offers to introduce Boot to Bill Weasley, who works at Gringotts. The subsequent grin that Harry and Ron receive is definitely worth it.  
  
Harry’s comforts are Hannah Abbott and Seamus Finnigan. Neither of them seems to know what they’re going to be -- Dean Thomas is set on being an artist, and a damn good one at that, recording first-hand accounts of the war -- but neither of them seem particularly worried about it either, so Harry puts that off.  
  
Two -- more importantly, the illness. The lot of them spend a lot of time in the hospital wing; Harry normally goes with either Hermione or Ginny to visit Ron. He’s spending less and less time awake these days, but doesn’t seem seriously sick. When Hermione asks Madam Pomfrey about it, she replies: “It’s a magical ailment. Of what nature, I’m not sure. He isn’t responding to any of my spells, but whatever he has, hasn’t become destructive yet.”  
  
It’s little comfort. Hermione spends a lot of time, predictably, in the library. But Ron reassures each and every time she comes to visit that he’s getting better.  
  
But everything else? Harry can’t complain.  
  
Harry spends a majority of his time in the cabin by the cliffs, even when it isn’t his turn to be on shift. It’s quickly become habit for Harry to head to the safehouse to see Colmar and Malfoy.  
  
Firstly, Colmar has grown quickly. Harry and Malfoy bring her raw chicken, cuts of beef, and other scraps from the kitchen, which she devours. Now, she’s up to about Harry’s shin standing, just below his knee. Her scales haven’t dulled in luster at all; if anything, they’ve become brighter. Her claws have fully extended, ivory and serrated on the insides so that if Harry or Malfoy aren’t careful, they’ll be getting more than ripped clothes.  
  
Her teeth are sharp, useful for catching small mice and rabbit she finds on their walks in the woods. Her wings have strengthen, and can suspend her in the air for anywhere from half a minute to a minute. Each time she takes off, her hind legs rip into the earth, leaving behind deep gouges, about as deep as half of Harry’s wand.  
  
For a dragon, she’s clever and quick in wit. They take her to the lake for the first time, where she eyes the still water carefully. Harry takes a seat on the gentle slope leading down to the clearing while Malfoy stands near the edge of the water. Before touching, Colmar looks back to Harry.  
  
“Go on,” he tells her, and she flicks out an inquistive tongue to touch the surface. Her reflection breaks into pieces as concentric circles ripple across the lake. She wades in curiously and it isn’t long before her long neck emerges from the water with a silvery fish caught in her teeth. She snaps at it victoriously, swallowing it bones and all.  
  
She seems to like the lake, more so than the thin, scraggly woods close to the cabin. Here, almost an hour of brisk walking away from the cabin, the woods are darker, deeper, and the undergrowth is thick. Here, there are more animals, more prey, and more coverage. Three weeks after Colmar hatches, Malfoy and Harry reach the safehouse and finish their cursory checks before walking immediately towards the lake with Colmar.  
  
After the fourth week, they don’t bother to bring food anymore: she finds most of her prey in the woods, or the lake. Malfoy occasionally still brings her milk to mix with some potions that he brews during their shifts.  
  
Colmar is intelligent. She seems to understand most everything that they say. Malfoy impresses the important of staying close to the cabin and staying hidden in the shrubbery. But there’s no one around for miles to see. Harry’s sure that Colmar wanders when she’s alone, but like clockwork, she returns every week when Harry and Malfoy Apparate in, and on the weekends as well.  
  
On the days that either of them stop by without warning, the loud Apparition crack serves as signal for Colmar. Typically, within a few minutes of the nausea settling down, Colmar swoops out of the air to greet them.  
  
Colmar grows, and fast. By their fourth week, on all fours her snout reaches mid-thigh. As such, the house can’t quarter her anymore, and besides, she needs to get out to hunt for food.  
  
Harry’s the one that starts the shelter.  
  
He chooses a quiet spot by the lake, one of Colmar’s favorite places to rest. There’s a clearing just large enough for two bodies and an adolescent dragon.  
  
He creates a lean-to, of sorts, using both magic and his bare hands. When Malfoy catches on, he’s quick to help. They make the shelter out of branches and cover it with leaves. The floor of the shelter they sweep clean, leaving soft dirt and moss for Colmar to rest on. It takes three nights to build.  
  
Colmar can’t talk -- she’s a dragon -- but she understands them, and likes watching them do magic. When Harry had asked about that, Malfoy went on a long tangent, explaining how dragons are magical creatures, the first ones to live in Britain. It goes something like this:  
  
“Dragons were the first -- they inhabited the land before wizards and witches,” Malfoy says, waving his hands. Malfoy, Harry learns, turns out to be a fantastic storyteller. “The first dragon,” he begins, “Was made of earth. She was born in Albion, and lived there for a hundred years as the only dragon on earth.  
  
“The brown dragon loved her land, and sought to protect it whenever she could. One day, a red dragon emerged from the sky. Do you remember when I told you dragons were elemental creatures?”  
  
“Yeah,” Harry says, “Brown is earth, red is fire.”  
  
“Right. This red dragon came from the continent, and he wanted to take over the island. But the first dragon wouldn’t let him. They fought for years and years: the brown dragon wanted to protect her land against the invader. Over the entire continent they flew and fought. Destruction and fire rained down on the witches and wizards who came to live in Britain.  
  
“Finally, after decades of fighting, the witches and wizards decided they had to kill the dragons, for they couldn’t live on with the fighting, the constant wildfire and earthquakes.  
  
“But before they could kill the dragons, the brown dragon defeated the red one in a final battle over the sea. The red dragon’s body crashed into the ocean beneath, and water consumed the beast.  
  
“Wounded, the brown dragon flew back to its home, a plain by a lake, surrounded by mountains. The dragon curled into a mound and slept for a hundred thousand years, since it was hurt so badly. The forces of old magic recognized this beast as both an elemental being -- a creature of earth and clay -- as well as a creature of magic. Its heart beat with an ancient magic we can only hope to understand, the same kind of animate magic that enables a wand to choose a wizard, or the same magic that protects children.  
  
“The dragon’s body molded into the ground, and the dragon returned from whence it came: earth. Its heart retained its magic, and centuries later, when witches and wizards wanted to build the finest wizarding school in all of Britain, they choose that hill -- what was left of the ancient dragon. In its heart, the dragon wanted to protect its land. That protective magic has been there for the students of Hogwarts and for the land of Albion since then.”  
  
“I didn’t know that,” Harry says a few minutes after Malfoy finishes. The fire crackles in the hearth. They sit in the cabin.  
  
“It’s just a children’s story,” Malfoy says. He seems embarrassed.  
  
That was the longest Harry’s ever heard Malfoy talk.  
  
Colmar can’t talk, so they talk. Some days, Malfoy still snaps and sneers, but for the most part, Harry reads his ticks pretty well: the tips of his ears turn red when he lies; and he taps his chin or turns his wand over in his hands when he’s thinking.  
  
He makes for a fascinating storyteller. After days of wandering the woods with Colmar, Malfoy and Harry set up a fire outside of the shelter they built, on the shores of the lake. Around the fire they sit. At first it was for necessity: the night was too cold, but the cabin was too far. But they’ve taken to conversation, some nights.  
  
Malfoy talks about Colmar -- the dragon as well as the place. After some prodding on Harry’s part, Malfoy shares stories of his travels throughout France. More often than not, Harry’s not sure what Malfoy’s talking about -- a fancy dish or an elegant spell -- but the French words roll off of Malfoy’s tongue like water, and Harry loves to listen.  
  
He talks about the countryside: the rustic houses, the miles and miles of sunflower and lavender. He talks about the food and, more sparingly, the people. Never his family, but odd acquaintances and strangers he’s met.  
  
In turn, Harry tells stories of Little Whinging. Harry doesn’t talk about the Dursleys, necessarily, but he leaves enough holes for Malfoy to fill in the gaps himself. He talks about his trip to the zoo, the park off of Little Whinging. He talks about the time Hagrid came to take him to Diagon Alley.  
  
“The flowers,” Harry says one night, “The gardens. She had me water them everyday. I don’t know why she cared for them so much. I never understood why.”  
  
Malfoy leans back. In the light of the fire, his face looks softer, more open. “It’s like having kids.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Or raising dragons,” Malfoy shrugs. “You raise them, take care of them, and the best thing that they can do for you is piss you off. Or bite you. You don’t get anything tangible back from them. You just take care of them.”  
  
After the fire dies down and Colmar falls asleep, they put out the embers and Apparate back to the Hog’s Head. Some three weeks after the band of travellers with fur coats come in, Aberforth forcibly sits them down to dinner before they head back to the castle.  
  
“It’s bloody freezing outside,” Aberforth says gruffly as he sits down three tankards of butterbeer. They’ve arranged themselves around a table in the center of the inn. “Least I could do.”  
  
It’s a bit awkward at first, eating with Aberforth and Malfoy. But the food -- bangers and mash, that first night -- is good, and everyone tucks in quietly. There’s no one else in the bar.  
  
Aberforth is still with the Order, Harry knows that, but -- “Do you keep watch? Or a shift, at any of the safehouse?” Harry asks curiously. McGonagall does, and Slughorn did before he fell ill.  
  
Aberforth grunts around a mouthful of potato. “No time. Not with you lot rushing in and out of here.”  
  
“Sorry,” Harry says.  
  
Aberforth swallows and takes a swing from his butterbeer before replying. “No matter. ‘Ve had some more people come in ‘ere, ‘cuz of you lot. Keep walking in and out, people wonder what I’ve got.” Harry thinks that Aberforth can be very lonely. “Barman,” Aberforth continues, looking past them, “‘S’all I’m good for.”  
  
“You helped us. During the war.”  
  
With a snort, Aberforth says, “Not as much as my brother supposedly did.”  
  
“He was a good man,” Harry says.  
  
Aberforth snorts again, this time, derisively.  
  
“He was a good man,” Harry pushes on, “But he wasn’t the man I thought he was. He had his shortcomings. Like all of us.”  
  
“You can say that again,” Aberforth mutters, but the tension in the room evaporates.  
  
After that, Aberforth seems keen on inviting them back again, for dinner and a spot of butterbeer. The food’s not as pretty as Hogwarts’ dinner but it’s good and hot. After a seemingly innocuous comment from Malfoy several nights in, they learn that Aberforth cooks it himself. Harry wonders if Albus ever came to visit his brother.  
  
From bangers and mash to steak and kidney pudding to Yorkshire pudding, Aberforth serves them up with good food each time. It’s the three of them on late nights, but other times, Harry gets to meet the odd businesswizard or witch on travels. If he’s lucky, he gets to listen in on Aberforth chatting with a few regulars. Two months of drinking at the Hog’s Head catches Harry up in Wizarding culture for all the years he’s missed. Drunken tales of clumsy heroes and rich fools fill the inn. If he’s really smashed, Harry’ll tell Malfoy to get up there and tell a few tales himself. Malfoy always refuses.  
  
Aside from his adventures with Malfoy, Harry finally settles into his Eighth Year at Hogwarts. For all the raw chicken and beef he nicks from the kitchens, Harry sits down with Hermione -- in either a sunlit courtyard, in the library, or by the lake -- and learns how to knit. Seamus and Ernie rag on him for a few days, but pretty soon Harry can make blankets that stretch from his shoulders to his feet.  
  
These he gives to the house-elves. “It’s not clothes,” he assures them the first time. They take his blankets gratefully and Harry sees his colorful, though lopsided, patterns among the wool blankets the house-elves clump near the fire to sleep on.  
  
Some evenings, Harry will take his broom and go flying on the Quidditch field. Terry Boot sometimes joins him, but usually it’s Ginny that’ll chase him. It’s in these moments that Harry misses Ron the most, but then Ginny will thwack a Quaffle in his direction and Harry pushes that out of his mind.  
  
And other evenings, Harry will wander down to the hospital wing. Sometimes, he encounters Lavender Brown on his way through the corridors, but more often than not, he’ll see her ghost floating next to Hermione beside Ron’s cot. One night, he steps into the hospital wing to the shocking sound of Hermione’s laughter. Lavender giggles beside her and Ron snores away. Harry slips out of the hospital wing unseen.  
  
During Potions, Harry sits next to Draco Malfoy. Though nothing like the turmeric incident happens again, Harry finds himself watching Malfoy scribble out elegant notes more often than he watches their teacher, a Ukrainian woman with a heavy accent.  
  
Sometimes, he skives off lunch and Charms; would rather spend a warm afternoon at the safehouse than in a classroom. Harry tries not to, if only because of Hermione’s disapproving looks through Transfigurations and dinner.  
  
Neville hasn’t been feeling well, so Harry often finds him in the greenhouse, repairing with Professor Sprout and Luna. Harry tries to listen best he can whenever Neville explains the habits of a nasty plant or another.  
  
In the common room, Harry plays Wizard’s Chess with Ernie Macmillan and sometimes Exploding Snap with Ginny and Seamus. Dean draws from his spot near the fire, sketchpad open to a clean page, pencil scratching across white paper. When he has to finish school work, he finds a quiet table with Hermione, who’s taken a liking to, surprisingly, Millicent Bulstrode.  
  
It’s -- good. For lack of a better word. Cathartic. Harry’s less angry, less whatever he was in the last throes of war. He shouldn’t complain, because there’s nothing more he could want for. But he can’t brush the feeling -- the paranoid feeling -- that something will soon go wrong.  
  
He doesn’t wait long.  
  
Hallows’ Eve soon approaches. Hogwarts’ castle and staff spares no expenses: floating candles illuminate the Great Hall, and the walking suits of armor have taken to scaring students turning corners. Jack-o’-lanterns sing from their perches in alcoves. Autumn has turned the wind and weather as crisp as an apple.  
  
Though everyone has expected Seamus and Terry Boot to head the plans for an Eighth Year party, it turns out that the impetus behind the movement is none other than Hermione Granger.  
  
“I think it’ll be good,” she explains defensively, “A good chance for us to get together and put our differences behind us.”  
  
Most everyone else just wants an excuse to drink and eat and have fun.  
  
After a delicious Halloween dinner, the Eighth Years along with a few other Hogwarts students like Ginny and Luna head to the Room of Requirement.  
  
The room’s been decorated garishly: red, green, yellow, and blue banners hang across the vaulted ceiling. Tables have been set up with an endless amount of butterbeer and firewhiskey; a few armchairs dot the floor and a fire pops in the hearth.  
  
Hermione was insistent that _all_ Eighth Years come. It’s nice, really -- feels like nights in the common room and lounging by the lakeside and playing Quidditch all rolled into one. They drink and laugh; Neville’s brought a box of Weasley jokes and Terry Boot won’t stop singing at the top of his lungs. Harry finds a seat next to Malfoy and they watch Seamus spin Dean around the room to the Weird Sisters. It’s nice.  
  
Or, it is until Millicent Bulstrode falls face-first into the punch.  
  
“She’s _pissed_!” Seamus hollers. Terry Boot laughs so hard he cries.  
  
Malfoy watches for a second, then stands abruptly. He makes his way over to Millicent the same time Hermione does. Harry’s quick to follow.  
  
Hermione and Malfoy heave Millicent out of the punch. An orange segment sticks to her chin and Malfoy peels it off delicately. “Absolutely _smashed_!” Seamus bellows. He swings his tankard in the air.  
  
“Alright,” Malfoy snaps at the rest of them, “Carry on.”  
  
The rest of the onlookers turn away and continue shouting, dancing, drinking as they were before. “Millie,” Malfoy prompts, “Are you alright?”  
  
“Draco?” she coughs out.  
  
“Yes,” Malfoy says, hoisting her onto her feet. “Up you get.”  
  
“She wasn’t feeling well this morning,” Hermione muses. “Maybe…”  
  
“Should we take you to the hospital wing?” Malfoy says loudly to Millicent’s face, over the Weird Sisters.  
  
“Here,” Harry says, coming over and helping Hermione, who’s more inebriated than he is. “We’ll take her together.”  
  
Hermione lets go and hiccups. Her cheeks are flushed. “You’ll be alright,” she tells Millicent, who still hasn’t stopped coughing.  
  
Millicent doesn’t stop coughing all the way to the hospital wing. She’s no longer dripping punch everywhere, thanks to a quick cleaning charm that Malfoy casts, but she looks pale.  
  
“She looks like how Ron did,” Harry says. “The night we brought him to the hospital wing. She looks like exactly how he did.”  
  
Malfoy gives him a considering look when they reach the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey quickly takes over. Harry glances towards Ron’s cot but he’s asleep. “Has he gotten any better?”  
  
“‘fraid not,” Madam Pomfrey says. “Hasn’t woken up since yesterday, except to eat.”  
  
Harry turns away from Ron. Madam Pomfrey tucks Millicent Bulstrode into a cot. “What were you three up to?” she asks, turning a calculating eye onto them. Harry’s suddenly glad that they -- the least drunk out of all the others at the party -- took Millicent.  
  
“Just in the common room,” Malfoy lies easily, “She was standing there and almost would’ve fell over if we hadn’t caught her.”  
  
“Hm.” Madam Pomfrey bustles a bit, taking Millicent’s temperature.  
  
“Is it the same thing that Ron has?” Harry asks impatiently.  
  
“Hard to tell. It might be.”  
  
Harry presses on. “And Slughorn?”  
  
“What I can tell you,” Madam Pomfrey is slow in replying, “Is that all of these illnesses are magical in nature. I’m not sure if they were cast by the same person, or if it’s the same spell -- or if it is a spell! -- but I assure you, Mr. Potter, I am trying my best to find out.”  
  
Ashamed, Harry steps back.  
  
“I will say, however, that if Mr. Weasley does not improve by the end of this month, I will have to send him to St. Mungo’s.”  
  
Harry nods and Malfoy looks grims. “Right,” Harry says. “Well. Thank you.”  
  
They leave Madam Pomfrey and her patients behind.  
  
“There must be something,” Harry says, “Something that connects all of them -- ”  
  
“Was that Millicent Bulstrode?” Harry and Malfoy look up to see Lavender Brown floating beside them.  
  
Malfoy asks, “What’s it to you?”  
  
“Only, she looked rather ill,” Lavender says.  
  
Harry doesn’t look at her ghost. “She is,” Harry says. “And I think it’s related to Ron and Slughorn.”  
  
“Are you heading back to the party?” Lavender asks.  
  
“Yeah,” Harry says. After a pause, he adds, “Er, would you like to come?”  
  
“Not today,” she says vaguely, and floats through the wall.  
  
“Cheery,” Malfoy says.  
  
“What do they have in common?” Harry asks aloud, undeterred. “They all fell ill. They all were coughing -- ”  
  
“Symptoms,” Malfoy says. “Those are all symptoms. Unimportant, if it’s a magical ailment.”  
  
Harry frowns. “Well, what _is_ important if it’s magic?”  
  
“Depends on what kind of magic. If it’s a person behind this, then the victims have something in common, something that the caster thinks wronged him or her. Or something like that. If it’s not a person,” Malfoy trails off.  
  
“What?” Harry demands.  
  
“It could be a place…. Or a thing.”  
  
“What, like a beast?”  
  
Malfoy stops. “Think, Potter,” he says lowly, “Not sixth months ago, the Dark Lord was in this castle. Hell, he _died_ in this castle. There’s got to be something here, at Hogwarts. That’s the only way to explain this.”  
  
Harry frowns. “You still call him the Dark Lord.”  
  
Malfoy throws up his arms in defeat and strides up a staircase. Harry follows reluctantly. “But, if it’s the castle, then shouldn’t everyone be ill?”  
  
“It’s _magic_. You can’t predict it.”  
  
“If it’s a person, that would make more sense. Ron and Millicent -- they’re both Eighth Years.”  
  
“Slughorn isn’t.”  
  
“Right… Right, but, Slughorn teaches an Eighth Year potions class.”  
  
“Pureblood,” Malfoy says suddenly. “They’re all Purebloods.”  
  
They stop in front of the Room of Requirement. “You don’t think… ”  
  
“You asked what they have in common.” Malfoy’s voice is tight.  
  
Harry sighs. He opens the door and they step back to the party.  
  
Seamus stands on a wooden table in the middle of the room, chugging a bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey. Around him, Dean and Ernie and Hannah cheer him on. Harry and Malfoy plop back down in their seats by the fire, but not before getting some drinks themselves. With a glass of firewhiskey for himself, Malfoy drinks and looks into the fire.  
  
“Ron,” Harry says aloud. No one besides Malfoy can hear him over Celestina Warbeck warbling on the wireless. “Slughorn. Millicent.”  
  
“You know, they may not even be connected.”  
  
“All purebloods. Is an Eighth Year or spends a lot of time with Eighth Years.”  
  
Malfoy finishes his firewhiskey. “This isn’t doing any good,” he says. He stands. “I’m heading back to the common room.”  
  
“Do you -- alright. See you.”  
  
Malfoy heads out and soon after, Luna takes his vacated seat.  
  
“Alright, Harry?”  
  
“Fine,” Harry says, attempting to smile. They talk for a bit, but eventually, Harry doesn’t feel up to the party either. He finishes his drink and says his goodbyes, kissing Hermione on her pink cheek before heading back to the common room.  
  
  
  
Three days later, Neville falls ill. Dean and Ernie take him to the hospital wing.  
  
They saved him from coughing his guts onto his breakfast plate; the Great Hall watches on uneasily as Neville is helped by the others out of breakfast.  
  
“Blimey,” Seamus says darkly, over his hash browns. Harry looks away from the doors of the Great Hall closing as the morning post flies in.  
  
To Harry’s right, Malfoy puts down his goblet. To his left, Hermione unfolds the _Daily Prophet_ over her Arithmancy homework. Harry peers over her shoulder. Seamus, on the other side of Hermione, reads aloud: “The Search for Death Eaters Continues. Blimey,” he says again. “The Ministry of Magic encourages anyone who knows anything about the whereabouts of the fugitive Death Eaters to come forward immediately.” Seamus leans over his breakfast and calls harshly down the table, “Oi, Malfoy, you got anything?”  
  
Malfoy sneers.  
  
“Hey,” Harry snaps immediately, leaning over his breakfast also, “Fuck off, Seamus.”  
  
“Boys,” Hermione hisses, pushing them both back. Blood rushes in Harry’s ears. For the first time in a while, he feels angry.  
  
Seamus mumbles something under his breath. “Seamus,” Hermione says warningly. “Don’t.”  
  
Harry pushes away his bacon and beans, no longer hungry. “What else does it say?”  
  
“The usual,” Hermione answers. “Shacklebolt’s putting together a hunt. Doesn’t say who they’re hunting for.”  
  
“Nothing else?”  
  
“Nothing. They never release names now. It’s a precaution, I suppose.”  
  
“Names of the wanted, or the Aurors?”  
  
“Both.”  
  
Breakfast passes without bloodshed. Harry heads to class, but finds himself unable to concentrate. Before lunch, he heads to the common room to drop off his books, as usual. The door swings open to reveal a confrontation between Seamus and Malfoy.  
  
“ -- think I know something the Ministry doesn’t?” Malfoy hisses. “You think that, if I haven’t already said anything willingly, the Ministry wouldn’t torture it out of me? You think they haven’t taken that precaution?”  
  
“The fuck do I know?” Seamus spits, stepping closer. “All I know is that one minute you’re a Death Eater, and then the next, Harry’s at your trial, testifying for you, and you come here!”  
  
“You don’t think they’d just let me come back here? You don’t think they'd let me spend three months working in the place that the Death Eaters, that Voldemort _died_ in without approving it first?”  
  
“Malfoy,” Harry comes forward and takes him by the shoulder.  
  
“Get your _fucking_ hands off me,” Malfoy shoves him aside. To Seamus, Malfoy snarls, “You don’t think I haven’t told them everything I know? You don’t think they got it out of me when I spent a month in their cell? Who do you thinking is funding their chase right now? Who do you think is funding their _fucking department_ right now?”  
  
Seamus scowls. “How should I know?”  
  
Malfoy lunges out and grabs Seamus’ collar, yanking him close. Malfoy’s wand presses against Seamus’ neck. “Every single Slytherin,” Malfoy hisses, his eyes like flints of steel, “Every single person who has ever been mentioned in the same fucking breath as Voldemort’s name -- we chose the wrong side, and now we’re paying the price.”  
  
“Malfoy -- ”  
  
“If you touch me right now, Potter,” Malfoy says lowly, “I will make you regret it.” Malfoy stares at Seamus. “Pansy Parkinson,” Malfoy says, “Blaise Zabini. Sound familiar? All of our fortune gone. For reparations. For funding. For all the ways the Ministry can think of to spend it. Don’t think I haven’t paid my debt, Finnigan. Don’t think I haven’t paid it ten fucking times over. While my father rots in Azkaban every day, while I’m ridiculed for something that was out of my hands -- ”  
  
Seamus throws Malfoy off. “It’s not out of your hands!” he shouts. “It’s never out of your hands! You had a bloody choice!”  
  
“Of course I had a choice!” Malfoy explodes. “That’s why I’m here! That’s why I’m here, sitting through class every single bloody day with you morons! That’s why I’m putting up with the _Prophet_ articles and the speculation! That’s why I’m putting up with you lot instead of holed up somewhere in France like Parkinson and Zabini!”  
  
“Fuck you,” Seamus spits, “ _Fuck you_. For running, for hiding when we were here, fighting. You think you got it bad? You didn’t live the war, mate -- you don’t even know -- ”  
  
“You don’t think I lived the war?” Malfoy yells, “You don’t think I suffered as much as you did?” He yanks up his sleeve and jabs his wand into the ugly Dark Mark there. “You think I took this willingly? You don’t think I didn’t feel it when it felt like he was branding my fucking skin?”  
  
“And whose fault was that, eh?” Seamus jeers, “Who brought -- ”  
  
“Enough,” Harry seethes, stepping between them.  
  
“Oh, fuck you, Potter,” Malfoy sneers.  
  
“Harry, get -- ”  
  
“I said, enough!”  
  
_Bang!_  
  
The common room door slams open. Hermione looks at them for a second then a brilliant flash of white light erupts from her wand.  
  
Harry, Seamus, and Malfoy fly apart.  
  
“Guh,” Harry says, wincing in pain. He sags against the armchair he fell against, and touches his head.  
  
“What’s this?” Hermione asks incredulously. “What are you _doing_? You should be ashamed of yourselves -- ”  
  
“Who died and made you Headmistress?” Malfoy scowls from where he hunches by the staircase leading up to the dormitories.  
  
“This doesn’t have anything to do with you,” Seamus agrees. He’s propped himself up by a wooden table.  
  
Her nostrils flare. Without another word, she spins on her heel and stomps out of the common room. Seamus glares at both Harry and Malfoy before rising, though not without a grunt of pain, and exiting the room as well.  
  
“You didn’t have to work him up like that,” Harry says lowly.  
  
“Every single word of that was true.”  
  
“I believe you, I just -- ”  
  
“Oh,” Malfoy’s lip curls, “Savior Potter, trying to make the world right again.”  
  
Harry scowls. “I’m just trying to help -- ”  
  
“Then stop! Then stop trying to help! I can handle my own arguments without you jumping in.”  
  
“You would’ve murdered each other -- ”  
  
“Then let us!” Malfoy seethes, standing up. “God, just -- ” he sags against the staircase.  
  
“Fine, I get it.” Harry stands slowly and leaves the common room, heading down to lunch.  
  
In the Great Hall, instead of taking his usual spot at the end of the table, where he normally sits next to Malfoy, Harry finds an empty spot next to Ginny.  
  
“Seamus or Hermione?” Ginny says, scooting over for him.  
  
“I -- what?”  
  
“You all look as though you’ve just had a row. Were you arguing with Seamus or Hermione?”  
  
Harry glances down the table. Seamus has secured a spot next to Dean, where he appears to be murmuring darkly under his breath, no doubt explaining his argument. Hermione sits by herself at the end of the table, reading. “Malfoy, actually.”  
  
Ginny raises her eyebrows.  
  
“Did you hear, at breakfast? When Seamus asked Malfoy if he knew anything about the Death Eater chase?”  
  
Ginny’s mouth forms a small o. “You had a fight with him about that?”  
  
“No -- I mean, Seamus was arguing with Malfoy over it, and they were nearly at blows, so I tried to pull them apart. But then they wouldn’t stop, and then Hermione came in, and Seamus told her to sod off, that it wasn’t her business.”  
  
“Pass the roast, will you? It’s just there. Thanks.” Ginny scoops some roast onto her plate before continuing. “You know, Seamus is just worked up because of Neville, right?”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“I mean, first Ron, then Neville? They’re dropping like flies and Seamus just wants someone to blame it on. Malfoy’s easiest.”  
  
“But Slughorn? Millicent? Why the hell would he poison Millicent Bulstrode?”  
  
“Keep it down, Harry. Of course he wouldn’t poison Millicent Bulstrode, but Seamus doesn’t care about that -- he’s just upset because he can’t do anything to help Ron and Neville.”  
  
Harry chews his fish and chips furiously. He swallows. “I think there’s something we can do.”  
  
“What are you on about?”  
  
“I mean, I think I can figure out what’s going on.”  
  
“Well? Tell me!”  
  
Harry checks his watch. “Class,” he says, stuffing the rest of his chips into his mouth. “Tell you later. Fanks, Gin.”


	5. Not the Quidditch World Cup, or the Forest of Dean

Eight o’clock.  
  
Harry closes his textbook. “I’m heading out,” he says.  
  
Terry Boot looks up from his essay. “See you, Harry!” Dean and Seamus are the only others in the common room, ensconced by the fire in a game of chess. Harry doesn’t know if they hear him, or if they ignore him.  
  
Out of the common room, into the corridor. Malfoy waits in the corridor, looking up when the door opens. “Hey,” Harry forces himself to say.  
  
Malfoy doesn’t reply as they walk downstairs. “Let’s take the tunnel,” Harry says. It’s cold outside, and will probably snow soon. Malfoy doesn’t reply.  
  
“Look,” Harry says, heading into the Room of Requirement, “I know you’re pissed -- ”  
  
“Oh,” Malfoy says, dry as sawdust, “I am _royally_ pissed.”  
  
“ -- but it’s not his fault.”  
  
“Not whose fault? Finnigan’s?”  
  
“Yeah, well, I mean he’s just -- just angry -- ”  
  
“Am I not allowed to be angry?”  
  
“Aren’t you the one that thinks you’re better than everyone else? If you really were, then you wouldn’t be angry.”  
  
Malfoy lets out a disbelievingly laugh. “Appealing to my vanity Potter? I’m shocked.”  
  
Harry smiles wryly.  
  
For the most part, the tension dissipates after that. They emerge out of Ariana’s portrait and nod at Aberforth. The back door swings shut behind them. _Crack!_  
  
Colmar sweeps out of the sky, a small gem of blue, until she swoops in close, folding her wings in and landing in front of the cabin. She croons at the sight of them. When the puff of wind from her wings ruffles their hair, Malfoy laughs.  
  
Almost immediately, it seems as though Malfoy’s bad mood dissipates. “Good evening,” he tells her, oddly formal like usual. She dips her head and he rubs the spot between her eyes.  
  
Colmar’s shoulders come up to Malfoy’s hips. Her scales glisten with every movement and, if she were to roar right now, the window panes of the cabin would tremble.  
  
Colmar huffs in amusement -- inwardly, Harry does the same at Malfoy’s antics -- and jerks her head towards the forest. Malfoy smiles at her indulgently and they begin the way into the woods.  
  
“You know,” Malfoy says to Harry as they walk, “We should bring in broomsticks.”  
  
“Here?”  
  
“To fly, I mean. She’s getting fast, and it’ll be easier if we could just fly to the lake each time, instead of walking.”  
  
They do that. That Saturday, Harry wakes early and takes the stairs down to the common room. Malfoy’s waiting, there, arranging his robes with one hand and clutching his broomstick with the other. Harry grins unexpectedly, because he can’t help it; Malfoy blinks in surprise. “Don’t stand there, smiling like an idiot,” Malfoy says automatically, “Let’s go.”  
  
The familiar loud crack fills the air as they Apparate to the safehouse. As usual, Colmar pokes her head out from the thin trees near the cabin to greet them. “Good morning,” Malfoy says. He holds up his broomstick for Colmar to inspect. She pads over to Harry to do the same.  
  
They mount their broomsticks and float into the air. “We’ll fly today too,” Harry tells Colmar. She tilts her head, curious, and then snuffs in delight when Harry and Malfoy float over the treetops. They fly over the forest and spot the lake within fifteen minutes, but spend another twenty looping back and forth. Colmar finds delight in chasing Malfoy and Harry; it’s interesting, for Harry, being the chased for once.  
  
It’s exhilarating, flying through the cold air and watching the forest beneath them turn into a single brushstroke of green. Colmar’s strong enough to fly steadily for nearly an hour now, and they take that to its full advantage. They weave in and out, in front and behind Colmar; she snaps at them playfully, but her jaws are still strong enough that even a gentle nip poses a serious threat.  
  
After nearly an hour, Colmar’s neck droops with exhaustion, and she floats down to their clearing by the lake. Harry and Malfoy linger for a little longer in the air, watching their dragon disappear into the undergrowth. “I’ll bring a Snitch, next time,” Harry calls to Malfoy. Malfoy grins in response and they race down to the lake.  
  
Malfoy beats him, but only because he has a head start.  
  
“Well,” Malfoy says, throwing his broomstick onto the ground carelessly, “That was refreshing.”  
  
Colmar watches them lazily from where she rests by the lake. Her tail dips into the water every so often.  
  
Harry exhales happily and sprawls out on the soft dirt on the shores of the lake. Here, it’s easy to forget about illnesses and Death Eaters and ancient magic. The only magic here is in the pulse of adrenaline, rushing from Harry to Malfoy to Colmar, melting into a warm thread of contentment as they settle down.  
  
Winter has begun to creep in, but that doesn’t them from enjoying the smell of pine and fresh air. After lazing on the lake’s shores for an hour or so, Colmar rouses them, and they fly again, further north. The woods continue on for another half hour, before breaking into a valley, where a quiet river winds between two slopes before draining out into the ocean.  
  
It takes them a week to map out the valley, alternatively flying with their brooms and walking with their legs. Harry finds the cave, a dark opening that leads to a dry, warm stone dwelling in the side of the valley. “You could stay here,” he tells Colmar, “Instead of by the lake. This is bigger. There’s more room.”  
  
Colmar examines the cave consideringly and snorts in approval. Malfoy smiles, small and lopsided. It’s Harry’s favorite smile.  
  
They continue exploring the valley, wandering down to the rushing river, which is much louder in person than it is from the air, to the mouth of the water, where it turns into an estuary that kisses the sea.  
  
They don’t fly over the ocean -- not yet. The winds there are strong, and dangerous. But they do linger in the estuary for an afternoon, Malfoy sprawled over the sand, soaking in what he can of the winter sun, Harry flying over the shallow water with Colmar. It’s good, it really is.  
  
Back at the castle, Seamus still acts cool towards Harry, doesn’t talk to Malfoy at all. But Dean grimaces understandingly every time Seamus does so, and Hermione isn’t pissed off at Harry as much, so it’s alright.  
  
Classes are alright, too. Potions quickly becomes a favorite of Harry’s: mostly because Slughorn doesn’t teach anymore, and their Ukrainian professor lets them do as they want after they finish their potion for the day. Also, Harry gets to sit next to Malfoy in that class. Many days, they clear their cauldron and ingredients to pull out paper and sketch Colmar, or their cabin.  
  
Harry remembers one particular class vividly: their substitute professor has asked them to brew a Sleeping Draught individually. Just the week before, Harry had helped Malfoy brew the exact same potion, for Colmar. Consequently, Harry moves through the steps easily, and finishes right after Malfoy and Hermione.  
  
“Very good,” the professor says, as she examines his bubbling cauldron.  
  
As soon as class lets out, Harry whoops in the hallway, much to the chagrin of Hermione. She snorts and congratulates him, before bustling to her next class.  
  
“Very good,” Harry says to Malfoy in a terrible mimicry of their professor’s accent. Malfoy rolls his eyes.  
  
“Savior of the Wizarding World,” Malfoy drawls, “And he’s excited over praise that I get every day.”  
  
Harry grins and shoves Malfoy good-naturedly. What he doesn’t expect is for Malfoy to shove back, and throw his arms around Harry’s shoulders for good measure. Harry feels as though his grin’s going to split his face, even if it’s only for a few minutes.  
  
But also: in Potions, Harry gets to see flashes of Malfoy’s pale wrists when he cuts his ginger root; Harry sees Malfoy’s pale cheeks turn pink in front of a smoldering cauldron, and the little tuft of hair that slants over his face when he leans over to stir his potion. Harry gets these little snatches of Malfoy, pieces of him that make Harry sometimes wish he were as artistically inclined as Dean. That way, Harry could draw these little bits of skin and bones, keep them close.  
  
The winter holidays approach quickly. Harry spends more time with Malfoy now than ever, with Ron in the hospital and Hermione visiting Ron or preparing for NEWTs or meeting with Mafalda Hopkirk.  
  
One day, after their shift, they head down to breakfast. The others soon leave for class, but since Harry and Malfoy don’t have lessons 'til after lunch, they linger over breakfast. Harry tears off the blank parchment at the end of his parchment and scribbles out a quick map. “Here’s the cabin,” Harry explains, “And the lake. And,” he continues drawing, “The valley. It takes about a day to get to the valley, since Colmar’s still growing -- ”  
  
“Draco,” someone interrupts them.  
  
Harry crumples the map and turns around with Malfoy at the same time to see a Sixth Year Slytherin approaching.  
  
“Draco,” she pants, her face pale and contorted.  
  
“Astoria?” he frowns. “What’s -- ”  
  
“The papers,” she whispers, her voice hoarse, “The papers on my -- ” she groans and slumps forward.  
  
Harry and Malfoy leap forward so she won’t hit her head into the table.  
  
“Christ,” Harry says, “This has got to stop happening.”  
  
They take Astoria to the hospital wing. Since she’s so light, Malfoy simply slings her arm around his shoulders and hoists her all the way to the hospital wing.  
  
“Another Pureblood,” Malfoy says quietly as they pace the familiar corridor down to the hospital wing. “I don’t understand -- ”  
  
Harry pushes the doors to the hospital wing open.  
  
A crowd turns around to look at them: Arthur and Molly Weasley stand next to Ron’s cot, Molly looking as though she’s been crying; Hermione sits near them; Professor McGonagall turns away from a conversation with Madam Pomfrey.  
  
“Oh dear,” murmurs Madam Pomfrey, scuttling forward to help with Astoria.  
  
“What’s going on?” Harry says.  
  
“Harry,” Hermione rises. “It’s Ron. We’re -- they’re moving him to St. Mungo’s.”  
  
“What? Why? I thought -- ”  
  
“Mr. Potter,” McGonagall cuts in, “We believe this is the best decision at this moment. Mr. Weasley has been ill for nearly three months, with no signs of improvement. Because his ailment continues to leech on his energy, it’d be best to -- ”  
  
“Leech his energy? I thought it wasn’t dangerous, it was just -- ”  
  
“Harry,” Hermione says urgently, “Not now.”  
  
Harry rushes over to Ron’s side. His best friend’s gone completely pale, a sickly white color; the sockets of his eyes are dark. He looks emaciated.  
  
Madam Pomfrey and Malfoy finish placing Greengrass on the cot next to Ron.  
  
“Come, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall says, moving out of the way.  
  
“We’ll be back soon,” Madam Pomfrey says to Harry and Malfoy. She flicks her wand and Ron and his cot float into the air. Madam Pomfrey leads him out of the hospital wing, presumably to the front entrance to Apparate him to St. Mungo’s. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, followed by Hermione. It looks far too similar to a procession at a funeral to be comfortable.  
  
Harry watches them go in shock.  
  
“Where did you find Ms. Greengrass?” McGonagall’s voice rings through the hospital wing.  
  
“We -- we were at breakfast,” Malfoy says. “She came up to me, wanted to tell me about something. She said -- something about papers, and then she pitched forward. And we brought her here.”  
  
McGonagall pinches the bridge of her nose.  
  
“We don’t know what’s causing this, do we, Professor?” Harry asks tentatively.  
  
“I’m afraid we don’t, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall says. Her lips purse as she looks down at Greengrass.  
  
“I thought it wasn’t dangerous,” Malfoy interjects. He looks away from Greengrass for the first time since entering the hospital wing. “Madam Pomfrey said it wasn’t dangerous.”  
  
“She was wrong,” McGonagall says. “We don’t know what this is. We thought we did.”  
  
“They’re all Purebloods,” Harry voices his thoughts aloud. He looks at Millicent’s still body across the wing. “All Slytherins and Gryffindors.”  
  
Professor McGonagall pulls her emerald robes tighter around herself. “I must be off,” she says. “I have an appointment with the Minister of Magic.” With that, she leaves the hospital wing.  
  
“She was supposed to marry me,” Malfoy says, without any other context.  
  
Harry’s head snaps up. “What?”  
  
“Her mother wanted her to marry me,” Malfoy sniffs. “Dreadful woman.”  
  
“She seems alright,” Harry says cautiously.  
  
“Her mother, not her.”  
  
“Greengrass… ”  
  
Malfoy explains, “Her sister was in our year. Daphne.”  
  
“She’s not here?”  
  
“She’s in France.” Malfoy’s eyebrows furrow.  
  
“The Death Eaters,” Harry suggests, “The ones that Shacklebolt’s after. Could they be behind this?”  
  
“They could be behind anything -- but why would they target two Slytherins, and a professor?”  
  
“Slughorn, Millicent, Astoria -- they all came back.”  
  
“What are you on about?”  
  
“I mean, they came back to Hogwarts. And they fought for Dumbledore, against Voldemort. Could a Death Eater want revenge and somehow cast a spell?”  
  
“How the bloody hell would a Death Eater get in here?”  
  
“He wouldn’t need to get in -- ”  
  
Malfoy snarls. “Are you suggesting there’s a traitor in here?”  
  
“No,” Harry backtracks quickly, “I’m only saying that there are ways to get into the castle.”  
  
Malfoy’s frown deepens. “Theoretically speaking, even if this supposed Death Eater got past the doubled wards and the doubled security, you’re missing an important detail.”  
  
“What’s that?”  
  
“Well,” Malfoy turns his wand over in his hands. “If a Death Eater somehow reached Hogwarts, his first target wouldn’t be someone like Astoria, or Slughorn. The Greengrass family has been careful not to associate -- at all -- with the Dark Lord. Slughorn’s considered a coward. They aren’t the ideal targets.”  
  
“Who’s the ideal target then, you?”  
  
“Actually, I was going to say you.”  
  
“A real comfort,” Harry says sarcastically.  
  
After a few more minutes pass, it becomes apparent that Madam Pomfrey and Hermione aren’t returning any time soon.  
  
“Better head back then,” Harry sighs. They walk back to the common room.  
  
“We should visit Astoria’s dorm,” Malfoy says when they reach the Eighth Year dorms.  
  
“Er, sorry, why?”  
  
“She said something about her papers.”  
  
“Right.”  
  
“I want to see them.”  
  
“You aren’t a girl, Malfoy.”  
  
Malfoy scowls. “I know, you idiot. When Granger comes back, she can make herself useful. I’ll take us down to the dungeons.”  
  
“And we can’t get a Slytherin girl to look because?”  
  
“Granger will know what to look for,” Malfoy says.  
  
They sit, lost in thought for a bit. Then Harry pulls out the crumpled map of the safehouse again. They go over the distances and argue a bit over where to explore next, when Colmar grows stronger, until Hermione steps into the common room.  
  
“Oh,” she says, clearly surprised at the sight of them. “You aren’t at lunch.”  
  
“Forgot,” Harry says. Malfoy stands. “Granger,” he says. “We need a favor.”  
  
She eyes him suspiciously. “What’s this about?”  
  
“We’ll explain on the way,” Harry says. “C’mon.”  
  
It takes only a few minutes to explain the situation to Hermione, wherein they walk to the Slytherin dungeons. Harry doesn’t mention that he already knows the way to the common room.  
  
“Oi,” Malfoy gestures at a First Year walking by and gets her to open the dungeon. She does so suspiciously, glaring at Harry and Hermione as she walks away.  
  
“Friendly,” Hermione says.  
  
They step into the common room, which looks similar to how Harry remembers it looking nearly ten years ago: the ceilings are high and the common room is circular. On the clean black floor, several black leather couches sit by a small fire. Green pillows and a dark green throw adorn the black couches.  
  
Several tables are scattered across the common room, where a few Slytherins study. Across, the most prominent feature of the common room are the enormous windows peering into the blue-green lake, washing the room in eerie green light.  
  
“This way,” Malfoy says quietly, leading to them to a staircase tucked away on the side of the common room. He gestures up a staircase. “First bed to the left.”  
  
Hermione fixes Malfoy with a firm look before stepping up the stairs determinedly. Malfoy brushes his hair out of his face and Harry looks away.  
  
She reemerges not more than five minutes later, lips tight.  
  
“Did you find anything?”  
  
She paces past them and Harry and Malfoy follow her out of the dungeon. She swings the door open; Harry catches it and holds it open for Malfoy, who brushes against Harry’s shoulder as he exits.  
  
Hermione doesn’t speak until they leave the dungeons. “I found something,” she says. Hermione holds up a newspaper clipping, stopping in an alcove on the second floor. Behind her, sunlight leaks through the glass window.  
  
“Is that the _Prophet_?”  
  
Hermione nods. “It’s a clipping of the _Prophet_ from a few years ago.”  
  
“Well, give it here,” Malfoy says. He gestures for it and she gives it to him.  
  
“From January, 1996.”  
  
“Hang on,” Harry says, “Wasn’t that -- ”  
  
“Mass breakout from Azkaban,” Malfoy reads, “Mayhem at high security prison.”  
  
“I remember,” Harry says, “I remember reading that. Wasn’t it Bellatrix Lestrange -- ”  
  
“Augustus Rookwood,” Hermione agrees.  
  
“Antonin Dolohov,” Malfoy finishes. “His name is highlighted.”  
  
“That’s our Death Eater,” Harry says. “He’s the one -- ”  
  
“We don’t know if a Death Eater is behind these attacks, Harry,” Hermione interrupts. “We don’t even know if it’s a person -- ”  
  
“Dolohov’s dead,” Malfoy says abruptly. “I know he’s dead. I saw him -- at the Battle.”  
  
“He can’t be behind this if he’s dead,” Harry reasons.  
  
Hermione frowns. “Are you certain?”  
  
Malfoy narrows his eyes. “I know a dead person when I see one, Granger, I’ve seen enough of them.”  
  
“Hey,” Harry says, “Leave it.”  
  
Malfoy scowls at Harry, but turns away. “He’s dead, that’s for sure.”  
  
Hermione taps something. “I have an idea,” she says.  
  
Harry and Malfoy wait.  
  
“I have an idea,” she repeats, turning away, speaking more to herself than anyone.  
  
“Go on,” Harry prompts.  
  
“I have to research,” Hermione says, “I’m not entirely certain, but… ” she trails off. “I’ll be back,” she says confidently, shouldering her bag and pushing away from them.  
  
They watch her go.  
  
“She gets like that,” Harry says.  
  
Malfoy makes a noise of consideration.  
  
Around them, class ends, and a slew of students spills out of class, looking at Harry and Malfoy curiously. Harry feels so out of place at moments like this, with students that are eleven years old looking at him with wide eyes.  
  
“D’you want to head to the safehouse?” Harry asks.  
  
“God,” Malfoy replies, “I thought you’d never ask.”  
  
They head down to the safehouse, stopping by to share a bottle of pumpkin fizz with Aberforth. They really shouldn’t -- because it’s still a weekday, and they have Charms soon, but Malfoy doesn’t seem to care, and Harry can’t really bring himself to care either. So.  
  
_Crack_!  
  
Colmar soars down to meet them. Against the sun, her thin wings appear almost translucent. Malfoy murmurs his greetings to her while Harry ducks into the cabin to grab their broomsticks. The flight to the lake is quick; they stop there for about half an hour for Colmar to rest, but she ends up sticking her head into the lake and so they lounge around for a bit.  
  
“Once it gets warmer,” Malfoy says, tilting his head back to watch the first of tiny snowflakes float to the ground, “I’m going to jump into that bloody lake.”  
  
“Alright,” Harry says, unsure.  
  
“I mean it, Potter.” Malfoy goes on to explain how, ever since he’s seen the lake, he’s wanted to swim in it. It is, in Malfoy’s defense, a rather nice lake: it’s very blue, and shallower than the one by Hogwarts. But Harry’s more distracted by the image of Malfoy in the lake, swimming, wet, and can’t be bothered to actually listen to Malfoy himself.  
  
“Anyway,” Malfoy concludes. “I think we should get going. That way we’ll have time to explore a bit, before it gets dark.”  
  
“Yes,” Harry says, jumping to his feet. “Let’s.”  
  
They grab their broomsticks with an Accio, and take off in the clearing by the lake. Heading north, they fly between the cliff and the forest, looking down on both the roaring ocean as well as the green foliage.  
  
Following the shape of the land, they fly for another hour or so, until they reach the valley and the deep cave. A neat pile of bones near the mouth of the cave, as well as a bed of moss and leaves in the back, indicate that Colmar prefers this dwelling to the shelter by the lake, which is getting smaller and smaller for her by the day as she grows.  
  
“She’s almost as neat as you,” Harry grins. Malfoy rolls his eyes.  
  
They leave the broomsticks in the cave, because, “I think she wants to hunt,” Malfoy says. Before Harry asks how he can tell, Malfoy says, “Her nose is twitching. It does that when she’s hungry.”  
  
The slopes of the valley are gentle enough to walk down. Colmar leads them towards the river for a while, but when it’s evident they make too much noise -- “Shut up, Potter,” Malfoy hisses. “I’m not doing anything!” Harry holds up his hands. When they walk, their robes catch on twigs, they crush twigs carelessly underfoot, and argue enough that they, predictably, scare away prey -- she huffs in irritation and takes off, hind legs ripping into the earth as she propels herself into the air.  
  
“Fantastic,” Harry says. “There goes our warmth. And protection.” Colmar isn’t old enough to produce fire yet, but her belly is a furnace, and in the worst scenario, they can always curl against her for heat.  
  
“That’s your own fault,” Malfoy says mildly. He continues picking through the detritus unaffected.  
  
Snow begins to fall in thick flakes. Pretty soon, the brown forest floor is consumed by a thin layer of snow. No more than a foot high, but still formidable.  
  
“Let’s set up camp while we wait,” Malfoy suggests.  
  
They find a moderate clearing in the woods, a little ways away from the river. Harry clears the snow with a warming spell while Malfoy starts a fire. It won’t get dark for a while, so they have time to kill. Harry frowns down at the frozen earth for a minute.  
  
“Staring at it won’t make it any warmer,” Malfoy comments dryly.  
  
“No,” Harry says, turning away with a grin. “But I think I have something that might.”  
  
Immediately after the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry would’ve gladly slept for five solid years.  
  
He couldn’t though, because there were bodies to clear, Death Eaters on the run, and a country to rebuild. As a result, there was little time for anything else. This included fixing up Grimmauld Place. After the war, Harry packed the little furniture and accoutrements he had there, and gave it all to Andromeda and her grandson, Teddy. She refused at first, and they compromised: Andromeda got the house, save for the enormous cellar, which up until recently, was empty.  
  
To fill it, Harry had dumped in everything that he didn’t need: seven years’ worth of textbooks, old school robes, memorabilia, and all of the supplies they’d used in their war against Voldemort. This includes --  
  
“We used a tent,” Harry explains to Malfoy, “When we were camping in the Forest of Dean -- oh, never mind. The point is, I have a tent in the basement of Grimmauld Place.” Harry Summons the tent and waves his wand: it sets itself up rather quickly, and Malfoy ducks in to inspect. Harry follows.  
  
The tent is as spacious and inviting as Harry remembers. Hermione must’ve cleaned it before packing it away with the rest of their supplies, because the inside of the tent is still relatively tidy.  
  
There’s a neat space in the middle of the tent where Hermione’s placed a few comfortable-looking armchairs and a table. Beyond that, two bunk-beds -- four cots in total -- are set up in the back, leaving space for a kitchen and bathroom to the right and left of the tent, respectively.  
  
“Not bad,” Malfoy says with grudging admiration. “A nice Extension charm.” He swings open a cupboard in the kitchen and makes a pleased noise when he sees the bottle of firewhiskey. He pulls it out and looks at Harry. “Well stocked,” he says in a posh accent.  
  
They settle onto the comfortable couches in the middle of the tent, and crack open the bottle of firewhiskey. Outside, they’ve put out the fire and retreated completely into the tent after casting some Warming charms. Malfoy pulls out a small black box and casts a spell Harry doesn’t recognize. A second later, a hologram of stars appear.  
  
“What’s that?” Harry asks.  
  
“Replica box,” Malfoy says. He navigates through the stars with his wand, zooming in until he finds a blue-green globe. “I have an Astronomy exam tomorrow.”  
  
Malfoy flicks through the stars, muttering names of constellations and celestial bodies.  
  
“Can I try?” Harry says.  
  
Malfoy scoots over and Harry plops next to him on the couch. He takes a swing from the firewhiskey before handing it to Malfoy.  
  
Harry spins the hologram until he finds Earth again, then zooms out to refocus on the larger planet Neptune. Then zooms out and focuses on the enormous Jupiter. And out and out and out, past stars and asteroids, until he’s staring at the Milky Way. “There’s so much,” Harry says, faintly.  
  
“Yeah,” Malfoy’s mouth turns up. He takes a sip from the bottle and Harry watches his throat move as he swallows. “Makes me feel kinda better about myself.”  
  
“It mostly just makes me feel small,” Harry says. He tilts his head.  
  
“It makes me feel like if I fuck up,” Malfoy explains, “I’m just so small, it doesn’t really matter.” He barks out a rough laugh.  
  
Firewhiskey thrums in Harry’s veins. He swings his body and rests his head against the arm of the couch, kicking his feet up into Malfoy’s lap. Malfoy makes a noise of irritation but grabs onto Harry’s ankles to hold his legs fast. Underneath Harry’s calves, Malfoy’s thighs are warm.  
  
“My mother wants me to come to France,” Malfoy says.  
  
“Will you?”  
  
“It would be nice,” Malfoy says. “Warm. Good food.”  
  
“It’s beautiful,” Harry guesses.  
  
“But the best thing is -- the best thing, is no one knows who I am there. I could walk through the streets and buy gelato, and no one would give a damn.” He shakes his head. “I can’t have that here.”  
  
“Yeah,” Harry says. “I know what you mean.”  
  
They’re too drunk to walk back. Harry clambers into a cot soon after that, to sleep off the alcohol. Malfoy takes the bottom cot across from him and takes out the lights with a flick of his wind. Harry yawns and falls into a light sleep.  
  
He wakes in the middle of the night when the warming spell wears off. Harry blinks blearily; there’s a single orb of light hovering over the table. Harry’s glasses are nowhere to be found and he can’t be bothered looking for his wand; he’s still a little drunk, he thinks -- maybe a lot drunk -- and his bollocks are about to fucking fall off because it’s so cold.  
  
Half-asleep, Harry stumbles across the freezing expanse of ground between the two bunk-beds, and all but throws himself into the occupied bunk.  
  
Malfoy mutters something that vaguely sounds like an insult. In the dull light, Harry can just barely make out the soft slope of his nose, his lips, the fringe of his hair. “Are you asleep,” Harry drunk-whispers.  
  
“Fuck off,” Malfoy says. And then, “Don’t hog the blankets.”  
  
Malfoy wakes him up the next morning with a solid kick in the shin.  
  
“Get off,” Malfoy says. Harry is half-convinced that everything Malfoy says to him is a two word phrase, the second one usually ‘off’. This morning, Malfoy sounds unfairly put together after a night of drinking.  
  
Harry groans. His face is smashed against Malfoy’s shoulder. Malfoy is unbelievably warm. For the best minute ever, they stay like that, ensconced in the blankets and what’s left of the alcohol in their veins.  
  
Then Malfoy shoves him off on his way out of the bed.  
  
Harry flops back onto the bed and nestles into the pillow. It smells faintly of pine and lemon. It’s delicious.  
  
Malfoy yawns sharply as he moves towards the bathroom. He disappears and Harry falls back asleep.  
  
When he wakes a second time, Malfoy’s gone. After lingering for a minute or two, Harry drags himself out of the cot and heads to the bathroom. After washing his face, Harry heads out.  
  
The winter sun is nearly blindly bright against the white snow. Harry’s head aches.  
  
“Good morning,” Malfoy says. There’s a metal bucket floating over the fire.  
  
“What’s that,” Harry mumbles. He sits on the edge of the tent, sticking his head out of the flap.  
  
Malfoy stands near the fire, peering into the bucket. “Water,” he says.  
  
Harry watches disinterestedly. A rustle from above is all the warning they get before a layer of snow, shaken from the treetops, rains down. Colmar lands neatly in the clearing soon after than, licking her maw with her long tongue. She’s just had breakfast, then.  
  
“You know she does that on purpose,” Harry says, propping his elbows on his knees and his chin on his fists.  
  
“Does what?”  
  
“The rustle. She doesn’t have to make that noise before she lands but she does so we can tell she’s coming.”  
  
Malfoy gives her an approving look.  
  
They drink their warmed water and Malfoy collapses the tent. Harry Summons it and rubs his eyes blearily.  
  
“Can you walk?” Malfoy asks, when they begin to head back to the cave.  
  
“What can you do if I can’t,” Harry yawns.  
  
“We can Apparate,” Malfoy smirks.  
  
Harry groans, his stomach threatening to turn itself over.  
  
They hike back up to the cave, an easier feat going up than down. At one point, Harry sways and Malfoy, with his Seeker-fast reflexes, damn him, slides over to grab his arm. Harry tries not to lean in.  
  
Reaching the cave, the entrance has been blocked with a soft-looking pile of snow. Colmar snorts and noses her way in, pushing the snow out of the way. They retrieve their brooms, and fly back to the lake, which takes longer than usual, because they’re both tired, and Harry’s still hungover.  
  
The surface of the lake has frozen over during the night, and the forest has turned into a white landscape, as snow covers the evergreen trees and ground. It looks like something Harry saw on the Dursleys’ Christmas card a few years ago.  
  
As Harry leans against a tree, Malfoy Conjures a Quaffle and tosses it to Colmar. He throws it at her and she catches it several times in a row with ease, so then, he hops on a broom and swerves around her, leaning to and fro as they toss the Quaffle back and forth.  
  
Eventually, Malfoy throws too fast, and Colmar’s neck darts out in the air, fast as a snake. She snatches the Quaffle as elegantly as any other apex predator, but consequently punctures it in the process. Soon after that, Harry and Malfoy climb back onto their brooms to head back to the cabin.  
  
“You want to Portkey back?” Malfoy asks. They wave farewell to Colmar who huffs once, sending a puff of snow up into the air with her powerful breath, before leaping into the sky.  
  
“God, yes,” Harry says. Never before has he been as grateful for Hermione Granger’s planning as he is now: she’d wanted a Portkey at every safehouse to ensure keepers could leave, even if they were too wounded to Apparate. “Or too inebriated,” Harry mutters to himself.  
  
The Portkey is an old boot in the back closet. Malfoy Accios it and they sit it on the snow in front of the cabin.  
  
“We missed Charms,” Malfoy says, smiling wryly.  
  
“And we’re missing Herbology now,” Harry says.  
  
“Here I am,” Malfoy says, “In the literal middle of nowhere, skiving off with Saint Potter.”  
  
“You’ve stooped to new lows.”  
  
Magic tugs below Harry’s gut, and his last thought before they Portkey out of the woods is: _I hope I don’t sick up everywhere_. 


	6. Yuletide Greetings

Harry manages not to retch all over, though it’s a close thing.  
  
They land in the back of the Hog’s Head just as Herbology ends, having spent the night at the safehouse. The back door is unlocked, but they have to unlatch the magic chain door guard, which Malfoy refastens after they exit.  
  
“Hermione,” Harry realizes, as they’re leaving the Hog’s Head. “We didn’t -- ”  
  
“I sent her a Patronus,” Malfoy says, “She knows we’re fine.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
Most of Hogsmeade isn't awake yet, just like the Hog's Head. They pass Zonko's and Honeydukes, both of which are open, but empty, before seeing Madam Rosmerta outside of the Three Broomsticks, opening up the bar.  
  
“Listen,” Harry says, as they approach, “I, er, I’m going to check something out,” he awkwardly nods back in the direction of Honeydukes.  
  
Harry’s not sure if Malfoy’s heard him, since Malfoy’s attention fixes on Madam Rosmerta, but he doubles back towards Honeydukes anyway. If Malfoy doesn’t want to apologize, fine, but the least Harry can do is give him a window for it without unnecessary audiences.  
  
The bell jangles annoyingly when Harry steps into Honeydukes, and Harry inwardly grimaces when the storekeeper looks up and recognizes him. “Mr. Potter!” he exclaims, sitting up, “You’ve come just in time to see our new wares… ”  
  
The storekeeper drags him from one aisle to the next, pressing sweets into Harry’s hand, and when that becomes not enough, into a bag that the wizard procures happily. From Fizzing Whizzbees to Drooble’s Blowing Gum to Pepper Imps, the wizard chatters on about his wares before the bell above the door rings again, signalling another customer.  
  
“Just a second,” the storekeeper calls over the aisle, “Now, Mr. Potter… ”  
  
Malfoy turns around the corner and observes the storekeeper bustling about for a bit. “Sorry,” Harry interrupts the wizard, “I’ll come back another time, but I’ve really got to go.”  
  
“Of course, of course,” the wizard ignores Malfoy and hands Harry a few sugar-spun quills before Harry grabs Malfoy’s arm and drags them both out of the shop.  
  
“I hate that,” Harry says, stuffing the bag into his robes.  
  
“Yeah,” Malfoy glances at him, “Must be terrible.”  
  
They walk down the snow-blanketed street, past the Three Broomsticks and towards the castle. Madam Rosmerta looks away from where she’s polishing a window and waves tentatively. Malfoy nods back. They continue on.  
  
“So,” Harry says.  
  
“So,” Malfoy mimics. Harry wisely doesn’t prod him for more conversation until they reach the castle.  
  
In the common room,  a group of Eighth Years lingers listlessly. The snow’s not terrible, but it’s gotten deep enough so that they can’t play Quidditch. Harry and Malfoy step into the common room. Ginny’s curled up on the fire with a textbook, next to Luna. Dean, Seamus, and Ernie are chatting on the carpet. Hannah Abbott chats with a Hufflepuff student Harry doesn’t recognize.  
  
Malfoy heads up to the dorms and Harry finds a seat next to Dean on the carpet. “Hi.”  
  
“Hey, Harry,” Dean says warmly, scooting over to make a spot for him.  
  
“Have you seen Hermione?”  
  
“Probably in the library,” Terry offers, “Said she wanted to prepare for an Arithmancy.”  
  
Ginny shudders. “Arithmancy.”  
  
Malfoy then makes his way down on the stairs and out of the common room.  
  
“Always in a rush, that one,” Ernie says.  
  
Seamus sprawls out on the carpet but otherwise stays quiet.  
  
“Are any of you staying for the hols?” Ernie asks. Harry hasn’t even thought of the upcoming break.  
  
“I’m not,” Hannah Abbott pipes in, “Staying with Mum.”  
  
“Think I will,” Dean says. “And Seamus, too.”  
  
“Are you staying?” Harry turns to Ginny.  
  
“Probably not,” she says. “You’re coming to the Burrow with us?”  
  
“Maybe.”  
  
Harry talks with Ginny and Luna until Terry emerges through the common room door with a shrunken Christmas tree and decorations. They singe the tree and nearly burn the tinsel, but manage to expand the pine until it touches the ceiling of the room. Someone puts on Celestina Warbeck and Luna floats all the decorations into the air: flashy tinsel, enormous Christmas wreaths, dangling red and gold and silver and emerald ornaments, and lines of popcorn unspooling over their heads. They chat amicably -- though Seamus seems to avoid Harry -- while plucking decorations out of the air and placing them around the common room.  
  
When the decorations are all up, Harry shares a game of Wizard’s Chess with Terry before heading to the library, half because he needs to, to finish reading for Charms, but more because he wants to find Hermione to ask about her idea, regarding the Death Eaters and the illness.  
  
By the time he enters the library, the candlelight of the sconces struggle against the shadows; Madam Pince is nowhere to be found.  
  
It makes sense, really. It makes sense because Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger are two of the most intelligent -- if not the most intelligent -- people that Harry knows. They’re studying Arithmancy, and it’s easy to find them because their candlelight spills down the hallway, the only occupied table in the entirety of the north side of the library. Both of them hunch over their frankly enormous textbooks, scribbling away.  
  
“Er,” Harry says.  
  
Malfoy looks up. Hermione mutters under her breath about Professor Vector.  
  
“I’ll just -- meet you outside the common room,” Harry says awkwardly.  
  
“Yeah,” Malfoy’s gaze slides away easily, like a bubble in oil. “See you then.”  
  
The party is in full swing by the time Harry reaches the common room again. It’s only the beginning of December, but someone -- Harry guesses Seamus and Dean -- has broken out the eggnog and apple cider. Music croons on the radio and Luna wears a festive hat featuring a live partridge and mistletoe.  
  
Ernie Macmillan whoops when he enters and hands him a slopping cup of eggnog. “Cheers, Harry!” he says, cheeks ruddy.  
  
Harry lets himself be drawn into the festivities. Pretty soon, his stomach sloshes with a concoction of eggnog, cider, and firewhiskey. Hannah Abbott drops a Saint Nicholas hat on his head. Harry laughs louder than he has in a long time.  
  
This -- this is what Harry enjoys. The sound of a fire crackling in its hearth, the uproarious laughter of Seamus and Ernie Macmillan as Terry Boot performs a drunken jig, the curl if Luna’s smile as Dean draws her hat -- this is what Harry has missed. This is what makes Hogwarts his home.  
  
Harry’s chest aches, a bit. He’s not sure if it’s because there’s a spot next to Terry’s jig that’s shaped like Ron, or if it’s because he’s afraid he’ll lose this all. Either thought is not consoling.  
  
Before his thoughts turn too dark, the clock tower strikes eight o’clock. Harry says his goodbyes quickly, slipping off the hat as well as his apprehensions. Hannah promises that the party will still be on when he returns, just as Harry slips out of the common room.  
  
Malfoy’s approaching as soon as the door shuts behind Harry.  
  
“Hi,” Harry says.  
  
“Hello,” Malfoy says.  
  
They take the secret passageway through the Room of Requirement. Outside, snow begins to fall in drafts.  
  
The harsh weather has apparently also done good for the Hog’s Head. Weary travelers, and there are many of them in Hogsmeade Village during the holiday season, rest in Aberforth’s tavern, their conversation floating by as Harry and Malfoy close Ariana’s portrait. They slip by undetected, and Apparate to the safehouse.  
  
It takes less than a minute to check the wards; they’ve had practice, and quickly head into the cabin before they get caught in the snow. Colmar is nowhere to be found, but the strong winds combined with snow make it difficult to see.  
  
Their cabin door slams shut.  
  
“She’s fine,” Malfoy says after a minute, voicing Harry’s unspoken concerns. “She’s probably situated herself in her cave.”  
  
Harry makes a noise of agreement.  
  
They start a fire, and settle down by the wooden table. It’s still a little cold; Harry wishes he’d brought his scarf.  
  
Like the dutiful student he is, Malfoy pulls out his books and begins studying. Arithmancy, again.  
  
“Do you want to be an Arithmancer?” Harry asks curiously.  
  
Malfoy writes out a sentence in his loopy handwriting before answering. “Not particularly,” he says, pressing his quill down. “I just have to get better marks than Granger this term, and the Chaldean method is just bollocks. That’s the only reason why I’m studying so much.”  
  
“You have to get better marks than Hermione.”  
  
Malfoy fixes him with a look. “Obviously.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because I want to,” he says primly. “Obviously.”  
  
Harry muses over that for a few minutes while Malfoy finishes the last of his paper. Finishing his last word with a flourish, Malfoy cleans his quill and puts it and his inkwell away. “What are you going to be, Potter?” Malfoy asks.  
  
“An Auror. I suppose.”  
  
“You suppose.” Malfoy packs away his paper, rolling up the parchment neatly.  
  
Harry shrugs.  
  
Malfoy pulls out his Herbology textbook when Harry doesn’t elaborate, and flips it open.  
  
“Did you want to marry her?”  
  
“Who?”  
  
“Astoria.”  
  
Malfoy leans back in his chair, stretching out his legs. His foot brushes Harry’s ankle briefly before pulling away. “She’s still alive, you know.”  
  
“Well, yes. I know.” Harry’s confused.  
  
“Only, you said it like she wasn’t. You asked if I _wanted_ to marry her.”  
  
Harry flushes. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just -- ”  
  
“Yeah, alright, don’t get all worked up about it,” Malfoy says, leaning forward. “To answer your question, no. I don’t even know her.”  
  
Harry struggles with an answer. He finally settles for what he hopes sounds like a neutral: “She seemed alright.”  
  
Malfoy’s lips pull into a shadow of a sneer. “Alright.”  
  
After that, Harry decides he’s been putting it off long enough, and pulls out his own Herbology textbook. In the quiet of the cabin, Malfoy’s insightful comments are rather helpful. It soon becomes apparent that Malfoy’s adept at explaining homework, as well as completing it.  
  
Harry’s watch reads just past one when they finish up the last of Sprout’s assignment.  
  
Malfoy yawns, teeth flashing. Harry quickly puts his books into his bag. A flash of black shocks him but his reflexes kick in, and Harry catches the scarf in mid-air.  
  
“Take it,” Malfoy says, turning up the collar of his expensive black cloak. “It’s fucking freezing outside.”  
  
Harry can’t say no. The scarf is thick and soft, still warm from Malfoy’s body where it presses against Harry’s cheek. Harry keeps it on as they walk through the secret passageway back to the castle; he keeps it on in the warm common room as an absolutely plastered Seamus and Ernie welcome them back. Only before sleeping does Harry take off the scarf, and then, he folds it up neatly and places it on his bedstand. He sleeps soundly.  
  
  
  
The next week, Terry Boot has a meeting with someone from Gringotts the night of his shift with what’s supposed to be Ron. Hermione typically juggles these nights with Terry, so Harry quickly volunteers to cover; he feels bad for not offering to take some of Hermione’s shifts and vows to do so more often in the future.  
  
Hermione and Harry take the secret passageway to Aberforth’s and Apparate on his backstep. They reach the line of perfect houses just as Hermione begins to explain the Chaldean method to Harry in preparation for her Arithmancy exam.  
  
“The greatest difference,” she says as they check the wards, “Is that the Chaldean uses different values assigned to letters.” They head inside. “And, in their calculations, the number -- ”  
  
“Nine,” Harry interrupts, arranging himself on an armchair. “Chaldean method doesn’t use the number nine, but the Agrippan method does.”  
  
Hermione blinks, clearly surprised. “That’s right,” she says, sounding simultaneously confused and pleased. “How did you know?”  
  
“Malfoy. He was studying Arithmancy the other day.” Harry chuckles. “Says he needs to get better marks than you.”  
  
Hermione makes an amused noise. “Speaking of, is that a new scarf?”  
  
“Oh yeah,” Harry looks down at the black fabric. “It’s Malfoy’s.”  
  
“How is he?”  
  
“He’s -- yeah, he’s good.”  
  
Hermione hums and turns back to her Arithmancy. Harry pulls out his Charms homework and when Hermione glances up, she smiles approvingly.  
  
A while passes in comfortable silence.  
  
“I think,” Hermione says tentatively. Harry looks up from his parchment. “I think I’m not going to the Burrow for the hols.”  
  
Harry frowns. “Why not?”  
  
“I’m going to Australia,” she says. Ron and Hermione had gone over the summer, right before term started, to track down Wendell and Monica Wilkins. They hadn’t found them. “To try and look again. Ron’s -- he’s not getting better, oh, and I know it’s horrid, but I think it’d be best if I just spent some time looking for them. It doesn’t feel right, like we didn’t spend enough time looking.”  
  
Harry nods. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that Hermione’s dealing with a catatonic boyfriend and Obliviated parents as well as studying for NEWTs and excelling in her classes.  
  
“Anyway,” she says, “Are you heading to the Burrow for hols?”  
  
“For a while. I want to head back to Grimmauld Place, to visit Andromeda.”  
  
“Oh, and Teddy!"  
  
Harry smiles at the thought of his godson.  
  
“Harry, did you want to ask me something? The night you came to the library -- or were you looking for Malfoy?”  
  
“Right, I wanted to know about what you were thinking of. Your plan. We found the newspaper clippings,” Harry prompts.  
  
Hermione’s eyebrows furrow. “Mafalda Hopkirk. You know her -- she’s part of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. She has some connections to the Aurors; I’m thinking of finding a way to get that list of Death Eaters that Shacklebolt is looking for.”  
  
Harry nods. “Good idea.” He doesn’t push her after that, as she twirls her hair in her wand nervously, scanning her Arithmancy notes with fervor.  
  
They return to the common room a few hours later.  
  
“Anything?” Dean greets them.  
  
Hermione shakes her head. “Nothing.”  
  
The holiday season puts Hogwarts and its students into a better-than-usual mood. Malfoy is no exception.  
  
Remembering his trip to Hosgmeade and the incident at Honeydukes the next morning, Harry shares his bag of candy with Ginny as they stroll leisurely through a courtyard after lunch. Ginny nibbles on her Ice Mice, commenting on her Quidditch team’s performance, when Malfoy enters the courtyard.  
  
Harry doesn’t see Malfoy until the latter solidly bumps into his shoulder.  
  
“Hey,” Harry says, reaching out to steady him.  
  
“Piss off, Potter,” Malfoy says good-naturedly, lips quirking. He nudges Harry in the same solid, purposeful way, his arm firm and warm. Harry laughs a second too late, and steps out of the way. Ginny watches them curiously and takes a heartbeat before resuming her description of Keeper tryouts.  
  
And the day after that, Harry enters the Great Hall for dinner, finding Hermione and Malfoy sitting next to each other. Their plates are pushed out of the way to make room for Arithmancy papers.  
  
“No,” Malfoy insists adamantly, “Look at this -- these are the notes from Professor Vector’s lecture last week -- _look_ , goddammit -- ”  
  
“In no way does that make sense,” Hermione counters, “ _Th_ _ese_ are the number charts I put together… ”  
  
Watching them argue is entertainment in and of itself, so Harry takes the seat across from Malfoy. He doesn’t regret it.  
  
Harry gets to watch Malfoy’s cheeks turn pink with indignation, gets to watch him sip at his apple cider and brush that strand of hair out of his face, gets to watch him pick apart his custard.  
  
The holiday season also means that when Harry, Hermione, and Ginny finally put aside time to trudge down the castle path to visit Hagrid, they have to break out their winter gear: Harry pulls out Malfoy’s scarf, which he has yet to return, black gloves, and a warm cloak.  
  
“An’ here they are!” Hagrid exclaims. His long shaggy mane of hair and wild, tangled beard does nothing to diminish the merry shine in his eyes as he throws open the door to his hut and greets them. “‘Lo Harry, Hermione, Ginny.”  
  
“Hi Hagrid,” they chorus.  
  
They settle at Hagrid’s table. Harry procures his bag of sweets and they share Pepper Imps and sugar-spin quills along with a piping kettle of tea. Hagrid brings out rock-cakes and they politely refuse.  
  
“Las’ time I saw you,” Hagrid settles down in his chair, “You all was only settling into the start of term. Now, it’s Christmas, eh?”  
  
“How were your travels, Hagrid?” Hermione asks.  
  
“Good, good… I was gettin’ yer letters as I was trekkin’ all over England.”  
  
“Did you see anything?” Harry asks curiously.  
  
“Oh, yer usual,” Hagrid puts a hand on his round belly, “Patchin’ up the animals that were hurt during the war. Found a few bowtruckles, a Billywig in a few of the safehouses them Death Eaters left behind.”  
  
“A Billywig,” Hermione says, interested, “They aren’t native around here, are they?”  
  
“Nah,” Hagrid shakes his head, “Brought ‘em in for potions. Nasty stuff.”  
  
Harry pops a tiny black Pepper Imp into his mouth, and for a minute, is distracted by the puff of smoke and fire he blows out.  
  
“Yeh know,” Hagrid says, “I got summat fer yeh, an interestin’ story. I wasn’t with them Ministry men, yeh know, they came in long before meh. Cleaned out the safehouses and lef’ behind what animals and potions they couldn’t deal with. Turns out, old Voldemort wanted to use dragons in the war.”  
  
“Dragons?” Ginny’s eyes widen.  
  
“We visited five safehouses all o’r the country. Four o’ ‘em had dragon eggs inside.”  
  
“What did you do with them?” Harry asks.  
  
“We dunno what they dun’ with them eggs. Had to turn ‘em in. ‘Course, if we put ‘em under a suspension spell, they won’t hatch, so we did that. Handed ‘em o’r to the Ministry.”  
  
“They could be perfectly normal,” Harry protests weakly.  
  
“Yeah,” Ginny says, though she sounds disbelieving. “Maybe.”  
  
“Anyway,” Hagrid says, sipping from his tea. “It wusn’t no easy journey. Worst part o’ the war is puttin’ everything back together again.”  
  
“Yeah,” Harry agrees. “It is.”  
  
Once more, Hagrid offers them all more rock-cake, and once more, they all politely refuse. He puts on another kettle of tea.  
  
“Heard yeh working with Malfoy, Harry,” Hagrid says, sitting back down. “Seen ‘im ‘round. How’s it?”  
  
Ginny and Hermione look expectantly at Harry, who nearly scalds his tongue on his hot tea, trying to swallow so he can speak. “Yeah,” Harry coughs, “I mean, er, he’s been good.”  
  
Hermione blows her tea and sips it delicately.  
  
“I mean,” Harry elaborates into the silence, “He knows what he’s done. And he’s -- he’s owning up to it, but… he’s getting better, too.”  
  
“Good,” Hagrid says, absently stroking his beard. “Good.”  
  
  
  
The first week of December comes to a close quickly.  
  
Hermione and Terry Boot herd all of the Eighth Years, plus a few stragglers like Luna and Ginny, together for a trip to Hogsmeade that weekend.  
  
They meet at the Three Broomsticks in groups: most of them head straight to the bar that Friday, but Harry, Hermione, Malfoy, and a few others have Potions. After their dismissal, Harry throws his black scarf on and bounds out of the common room, nearly running into Malfoy. Their chests bump and Harry quickly steps back. “Sorry,” he blurts out. He gestures behind him into the common room, “Were you getting something?”  
  
“Yeah,” Malfoy says.  
  
“I’ll wait for you.”  
  
When Malfoy reemerges from the dormitories, he’s tugging on a posh pair of gloves. Malfoy yanks on Harry’s -- Malfoy’s -- scarf good-naturedly and they walk to Hogsmeade.  
  
Lastly, the holiday season guarantees one thing at Hogsmeade: packed shops and enormous crowds, rushing about to get last-minute gifts. Snow sprinkles down gently, but blankets of it already line the streets. Wind ruffles the shoppers’ hair.  
  
Inside the Three Broomsticks, the air is toasty. Harry feels Malfoy’s fingers grab his sleeve so they won’t get separated as Harry leads them to a cozy booth in the corner. They pass and wave to Ernie and Hannah Abbott, who are chatting with a middle-aged witch with drinks in hand.  
  
For all of their arguments, Seamus stands up eagerly to let Harry and Malfoy slide into the booth. Terry greets them both with a drunken clap on the shoulder and a sloppy cheers. It’s apparent that they’ve been drinking for a while, judging by their hand-eye-coordination and the smell of booze clinging in the air. The din of the bar defeats all attempts at normal conversation; instead, they have to yell to make each other heard.  
  
Malfoy’s tucked into the back corner and Harry’s in the seat next to him -- Malfoy nudged Harry out of the way to get the spot furthest away from the rest of them and conversation -- which means that when Ginny and Hermione arrive, piling in, Harry scoots snug next to Malfoy. And then, Seamus starts hollering, and Ernie and Hannah Abbott leave their spot by the bar to join them. When Terry, Seamus, and Ernie return from the bar with a fresh round, they sprout into a drinking song, at which time Luna arrives with Dean Thomas. Dean and Luna slide in; Dean pulls Seamus fondly into his lap and everyone cheers.  
  
It’s strange, and good. There’s an ache for Ron and Neville, but Seamus and Ernie keep piling on butterbeers and firewhiskeys and ales, so they keep drinking.  
  
“God,” Malfoy snorts under his breath. He takes a swing from his firewhiskey. “Gryffindor drinking.”  
  
Harry grins contentedly. His leg’s flush against Malfoy’s and the alcohol runs warm in his veins. “Good, isn’t it?”  
  
“You all have the graces of trolls when you’re sober, I can’t imagine what it’s like when they’re properly pissed.”  
  
From across the booth, Hannah cackles at a joke loudly.  
  
Harry grimaces. “You don’t want to know.” He’s beginning to feel a bit fuzzy, so he takes another sip to keep from saying anything else.  
  
Malfoy hums but seems content listening in to the Gryffindor conversations. Eventually, Hannah tells Ernie to tell Luna to nudge over for the loo, and after a bit of rearranging, Hermione slides into her spot. Hermione quickly engages Malfoy in banter and Harry joins in with the drinking chant:  
_  
_ _Double, double toil and trouble;_ _  
_ _Fire burn and caldron bubble._ _  
_ _Fillet of a fenny snake,_ _  
_ _In the caldron boil and bake;_ _  
_ _For a charm of powerful trouble,_ _  
_ _Like a hell-broth boil and bubble._ _  
_ _  
_ _Double, double toil and trouble;_ _  
_ _Fire burn and caldron bubble._ _  
_ _Cool it with a baboon's blood,_ _  
_ _Then the charm is firm and good._ _  
_ _  
_ They all take a swing from their drinks and cheer. The whole bar seems to be in festivity, and most of the afternoon passes in a similar drunken stupor. By the time Madam Rosmerta gives their corner significant looks, their party begins to disperse, starting to wander back -- properly sloshed -- in search of free food in Hogwarts’ kitchen.  
  
The rest of them wander the crowded streets for a bit, sans Hannah and Ernie, who have stayed behind to keep chatting. It’s a bit claustrophobic, but everyone else seems more interested in shopping than anything else, for once. Hermione and Ginny excuse themselves to head to a new shop past Zonko’s, which sells an assortment of quills and stationary, for Christmas presents.  
  
“Fuck,” Harry slurs to Malfoy, “Remind me to do that.”  
  
“Do what?” For someone who’s been drinking for the better half of an afternoon, Malfoy sounds unfairly articulate.  
  
“Buy Christmas gifts.”  
  
Malfy grunts, and sends a dirty look over his shoulder as a hurrying shopper bumps into him. When Malfoy turns back, he seems closer than before. Malfoy sniffs. Their arms brush and Harry resists the urge to reach out and tug him close.  
  
Malfoy tugs his cashmere scarf tighter around his neck.  
  
“And,” Harry adds, blinking, “Remind me to give you back your scarf.”  
  
A particularly aggressive wave of shoppers pushes past them and conversation lulls for a moment. Without mentioning it, they both turn at the fork in the road, the turn that leads to the Hog’s Head. Hopefully, there will be fewer crowds there, is what they’re both thinking.  
  
They wander into Aberforth’s. The fact that even the Hog’s Head Inn is somewhat busy is a testament to Hogsmeade’s popularity in the holiday season. They sit.  
  
Aberforth’s lost somewhere by the front of the bar so Harry flags down a boy he must’ve hired as an assistant, and orders two soups.  
  
“Harry Potter!” A drunken wizard leans against their table, his breath smelling of ale. The man starts on the Battle of Hogwarts, his eyes only half-open as he slurs on. Harry’s a bit tipsy himself, and is used to this. But even his inebriated self spots the small turn of Malfoy’s lips.  
  
Just then, their soups come out. Malfoy discreetly flicks his wand hand and the man slumps away.  
  
“You want to eat this somewhere quieter?” Harry asks.  
  
“Let’s,” Malfoy says.  
  
Harry Transfigures the bowls into thermoses. At this, Malfoy gives him an odd look, but Harry caps them and tugs him out of the back door.  
  
They Apparate to the safehouse. Snow literally covers everything, and it’s hard to see with everything blanketed in white. Colmar’s nowhere to be found, but they don’t linger outside for long. Harry’s nose is numb when they push open the door to the cabin.  
  
“Do dragons hibernate?” Harry asks offhandedly. He sniffs.  
  
Malfoy moves towards the hearth and begins a fire. “Not sure,” he says, “It depends on the breed, most likely.”  
  
They settle in quickly. Harry pulls out the thermoses full of soup. Before he can Transfigure them back to bowls, Malfoy picks one up to inspect. He pulls out a seat and sits.  
  
“A thermos,” Harry explains. “A Muggle thing. Keeps food warm.”  
  
“Portable, too,” Malfoy says, sounding sincere. “Clever.” he admits. He waves his wand and the thermoses transform back into bowls, along with two silver spoons. They eat quickly; the soup’s still hot, and tastes delicious.  
  
For a few minutes, the only sounds that fill the cabin are the fire crackling and the clatter of metal spoons against ceramic bowls. Then, Harry asks: “Have you considered,” he begins, putting down his spoon, “That Colmar… ” He trails off, unsure of how to continue.  
  
“Was left by Death Eaters to kill the inhabitants of Hogwarts?” Malfoy asks dryly.  
  
Harry shrugs. “Something along those lines. I was at Hagrid’s today and he mentioned that he’d found a lot of dragons’ eggs at the safehouses the Ministry’s recovering.”  
  
“Consider this,” Malfoy says thoughtfully, putting down his soup spoon. His cheeks are slightly pink but his gaze is still intense. “The only people that have fallen ill at Hogwarts are Purebloods. None of them have seen Colmar.”  
  
“But they’ve been in contact with us,” Harry protests. “And besides, we don't know what this is.”  
  
“There’s a very, very small possibility. A very unlikely possibility.”    
  
“I don’t want it to be true,” Harry bites his lip, “But… ”  
  
“You think we should tell McGonagall.” Malfoy cocks his head and looks at Harry consideringly. His eyes are startlingly grey.  
  
“I think we should tell _somebody,_ ” Harry reasons.  
  
“She is getting big.”  
  
Harry finishes his soup. The fire pops and cracks happily. While he’s still warm, Harry pulls off the black scarf around his neck. “Here,” he says, “Before I forget.”  
  
Malfoy’s eyes flick over Harry; Harry tries his best not to blush. “You don’t have another scarf on you,” Malfoy says critically, only half a question.  
  
“No, er, not at the moment.”  
  
Malfoy gives him a face. “Keep it then. If you freeze to death, I’m sure the press will come knocking at my door.”  
  
“Right,” Harry says. He smiles.  
  
  
  
“Mr. Potter,” Professor McGonagall says. “Have a biscuit.”  
  
Harry was heading down to the kitchens to nick some sweets before dinner -- he’d missed lunch because he spent the afternoon with Colmar, who, evidently, does not hibernate -- when a Hufflepuff had run up to him with a message from the professor.  
  
“I’m fine,” Harry says. He shifts uncomfortably under McGonagall’s gaze. Around him, the portraits in the Headmistresses’ office mumble amongst themselves; some of them are dozing off.  
  
“I insist,” she says.  
  
Harry figures she won’t begin talking about what she called him here for until he eats one, and he’s peckish anyway, so he takes one. It’s good.  
  
“Mr. Malfoy,” she begins. Harry inwardly groans and prepares himself for the worst. “Has told me that you have a baby dragon living under your care.”  
  
Harry blinks. “Er, yeah. Well, I mean, she’s not a baby anymore -- ”  
  
Professor McGonagall pushes up her glasses and takes a steeling breath. “As I told Mr. Malfoy, I would advise that you have Hagrid check in on this creature. Obviously, with the eggs that Hagrid has confiscated from previous Death Eater safehouses, I’m left with no other option than to eradicate this possibility of threat.”  
  
Harry’s not sure what kind of expression he makes, but Professor McGonagall’s resolve seemingly wavers: she takes off her glasses, setting them carefully onto the table, and pinches the bridge of her nose.  
  
“However,” she says, exasperated, “Mr. Malfoy also tells me that he has taken necessary precautions.”  
  
Harry thinks back to all the potions, the time Malfoy spends out at the safehouse.  
  
“Luckily,” McGonagall continues, “The safehouse that I have assigned to you and Mr. Malfoy is far away enough for now that it hardly affects anyone else.” She folds her hands together on the desk.  
  
“So,” Harry blinks dumbly, “We get to keep it?”  
  
McGonagall doesn’t sigh, but it’s a near thing. “You are fortunate that I chose to speak to Mr. Malfoy before you. He was more eloquent in arguing his case.” She looks at him consideringly. “But, I would still like Hagrid to check on your dragon. I would also advise you to seek the advice of Ms. Granger, if you have not done so already.”  
  
This, Harry thinks, would’ve never happened if Harry and Ron brought up a dragon. If it weren’t for McGonagall’s soft spot for Malfoy, Harry’s sure that she would’ve Apparated to the safehouse and taken the dragon away herself, Savior of the Wizarding World or not.  
  
She lectures him for a bit after that but he tunes out, already thinking of the next time he’ll visit Colmar.  
  
It’s a little difficult to imagine bringing someone else into their safehouse; when Harry sees Malfoy at the library the next day, he snags the empty seat next to him and mentions as such.  
  
“McGonagall spoke to you about it too, then?”  
  
“Yeah,” Harry nods.  
  
Malfoy makes a considering noise. Then he shrugs. “It’s your dragon as much as it is mine. Bring whoever you want.”  
  
Colmar meets her first witch not long after that. Harry finds Hermione and tries to explain to her the situation as simply as possible. She’s pissed, then disbelieving, then pissed again, before she demands to see Colmar herself. That’s how Harry finds himself leading Hermione out of the Eighth Year common room when the clock tower strikes eight a few days later.  
  
“Where’s the git anyway,” Hermione says loftily.  
  
“Who, Malfoy? He’s already there. Bringing Colmar out.”  
  
“Hm.”  
  
They take the secret passageway, like he and Malfoy have so many times before.  
  
When they reach the safehouse, Hermione’s head swivels as she takes in their surroundings. “Interesting. An optimal location for dragon-raising.” She sniffs.  
  
As they approach the safehouse, Colmar and Malfoy wait by the cabin.  
  
Colmar’s brilliant -- there’s no other way to really describe how bright and how vibrant her scales look against the white, snowy background. Her shoulders come up to Malfoy’s now, and she rears her head excitedly when she sees Harry and Hermione.  
  
Hermione’s attitude melts away when she approaches Colmar; the dragon seems to have that effect on people. She approaches with awe, and Colmar dips her snout down to inspect the stranger.  
  
Hermione quizzes Malfoy for the better part of an hour, walking around Colmar with the eye of a grand inspector. Colmar in turn watches Hermione with a curious eye, which is about the size of a small bowl.  
  
Colmar soon grows bored, and she swings her heavy head several times towards the woods before finally nudging Harry playfully with her snout and taking off.  
  
“Wow,” Hermione says, sounding breathless as they all tip their heads back to watch her fly away. Harry can only nod in agreement.  
  
In the warmth of the cabin, they discuss Colmar more; from breeding to wingspan to hunting, Hermione asks questions and displays more curiosity than Harry thought she would.  
  
They talk late into the night. Malfoy’s less averse to the conversation than he normally is, and when Hermione’s _Tempus_ reads half past twelve, she sits up in shock.  
  
“Oh,” she says, glancing at the time, “I almost forgot to tell you.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out the old clipping of the _Prophet_ that they’d found on Astoria’s desk. “You remember this?”  
  
“The Lestranges, Rookwood, and Dolohov,” Malfoy sits up. “Those were the Death Eaters that broke out.”  
  
“So it must be one of them,” Harry says. “Astoria had this clipping out. She thought it was Dolohov, but he’s dead.”  
  
“So Rabastan Lestrange or Rookwood, then.” Malfoy taps the clipping.  
  
“They’re on the run,” Hermione says, “We know that. The Ministry’s looking for them, but we don’t know where.”  
  
Harry looks up. “You’re joking.”  
  
“Mafalda Hopkirk,” Hermione continues, unfazed, “Works closely with the Aurors in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. I’ve visited her office, and she has access to the files.”  
  
“Granger -- ” Malfoy begins, but Hermione pushes on.  
  
“I also have Polyjuice leftover,” she continues. “Normally, there’s high restrictions on entrance to the Ministry, of course, especially after the War, but I have Mafalda’s direct fire call. And, I know for a fact that she’ll be out during the hols, visiting family in New York.” Hermione finishes triumphantly, eyes bright.  
  
“Are you insane?” Malfoy hisses, “Breaking into the Ministry and stealing files of the most wanted persons in the country?”  
  
“It wouldn’t be stealing,” she retorts, “We’d just be reading the file.”  
  
“It’s not an entirely bad idea,” Harry says. “I mean, especially during the hols, I reckon the Ministry won’t be half as busy.”  
  
Malfoy makes a few token protests but Hermione’s resolve holds, and Malfoy finally relents with a sigh, “Alright, but it’s on you if this goes wrong.”  
  
“We won’t be heading to the Ministry for a while,” Hermione says confidently, “Not until Mafalda heads to the US.”  
  
Harry’s watch reads nearly one in the morning just then, so they head back to the castle and walk into the common room. Malfoy mutters something about bloody Gryffindors before disappearing into his dormitory room.  
  
Harry turns to Hermione. “You’re not mad about the whole thing?”  
  
Hermione furrows her eyebrows. “What do you mean?”  
  
“About Colmar. I expected you to be more pissed about it.”  
  
“That you raised a dragon for the first half of term without telling me? I am miffed,” Hermione admits. “But not completely mad.”  
  
Harry frowns but thinks it’d be better not to keep prying.  
  
Hermione’s quiet for about two seconds.  
  
“I’m not completely mad,” she says earnestly.  
  
“Yeah, alright, I mean -- you’ve said -- ”  
  
“No,” she shakes her head. “I normally would be, though.”  
  
“You… but you aren’t?”  
  
“I’m not,” she says again, and Harry’s confused. “What I’m saying is,” she says, “Is that if this were under different circumstances, I’d be upset.”  
  
“So… what -- what circumstances are these?”  
  
She frowns at him. “What do you mean?”  
  
Harry runs a hand through his unruly hair. It’s late, and he’s tired. “I mean, just -- why _aren’t_ you upset?”  
  
Hermione gives him an odd look. “Honestly,” Hermione says, shaking her head, “I’m not that surprised.”  
  
Now it’s Harry’s turn to frown. “What do you mean?”  
  
“Well,” she puts a hand on her hip, “It’s just -- Malfoy, isn’t it?”  
  
“What’s that supposed to mean?”  
  
“Well, considering our sixth year -- ”  
  
They’re interrupted by the common room door swinging open.  
  
“Oh,” Ginny says. “Sorry -- are we interrupting?”  
  
She and Luna step into the common room.  
  
“No,” Hermione says thoughtfully, “I was just heading to bed.” She pats Harry’s shoulder and waves the girls goodnight.  
  
“We just got back from the hospital wing,” Ginny explains, plopping into a armchair. “Madam Pomfrey chased us out.”  
  
“Are you alright?”  
  
“We were visiting Neville,” Luna says absentmindedly.  
  
“Oh.” Harry leans against the back of the couch and rubs his eyes. “How is he?”  
  
“Not getting better,” Ginny says reluctantly. “They’ll be moving him, Slughorn, and Millicent to St. Mungo’s soon.”  
  
Harry’s gut twinges.  
  
“It’s late,” Ginny says, hoisting herself up. “I’ll bet you’re knackered.”  
  
“Yeah,” Harry agrees. Sleep sounds nice.  
  
  
  
Classes are coming to an end, and Christmas decorations are going up. Harry sees Hagrid dragging enormous pine trees across the snow and waves to him.  
  
Professor Flitwick takes on decorations with gusto: he hangs up a variety of wreaths and tinsels, floating ornaments and festive candles through the air. At some point, he also puts up icles and a light sprinkling of sparkling snow in the Great Hall.  
  
Everyone’s also starting to plan for the upcoming hols. Molly Weasley’s written him and Hermione a letter, inviting them both to the Burrow for break. Hermione’s heading to Australia for the first part of the hols, but is supposed to come back for the latter half.  
  
When he talks to Malfoy, Harry learns that he won’t be in the country for the first part of the hols either: Malfoy’s heading to France to visit his mother.  
  
Malfoy’s his friend -- a _good_ friend. He won’t be Ron, he’s nothing like Ron. If anything, they’re complete opposites: Ron is loud and boisterous and cheery and the kind of friend you get drunk with and he hoots and claps your back when you sick up all over his shoes; Malfoy’s quieter and clever, he tells these fantastic stories and loves good food and the finer things in life. Malfoy’s also snarky and, sometimes he looks at Harry and tilts his head just a bit --  
  
Anyway, Harry knows that Malfoy’s dad’s not getting out of Azkaban anytime soon, if ever, and his mum’s in France, so he figures it won’t hurt to try.  
  
“When you get back,” Harry starts tentatively, “I’ll probably be at Grimmauld place. Fixing the place up. If you want to stop by.”  
  
“Yeah,” Malfoy says, but he’s scribbling away at a Potions essay which Harry hasn’t started.  
  
Regardless, the hols come quickly. Classes fly by and Harry spends more and more time in the woods with Colmar and Malfoy. They take out the tent and spend more than one night out in the valley. Colmar doesn’t fly as often, to conserve energy, but she sticks her head into the tent and they sit and talk and tell stories. Or, well, Malfoy tells stories and Harry listens.  
  
Tonight, Malfoy’s weaving something circular, the size of a decent coaster, with pale green-yellow strands of magic. He’d explained it once as a net of charms. A magical coaster, Harry thinks privately.  
  
“Tell me a story,” Harry requests. It’s a minute or two before Malfoy starts.  
  
“Once,” Malfoy begins, his wand flicking and twisting as he continues weaving, “there was a man who lived in the woods with his two sons. They didn’t have a mother, but learned well from their father. They learned to hunt and fish: they followed the way of the land to stalk deer and other game, and cast nets of magic to catch clams and fish.  
  
“The brothers were young, but brave. Before long, their father grew old and weary. He relied on his sons for food and shelter. They lived at the edge of the forest, between a river and a lush stretch of woods, which went on and on for miles. One day, they took their boat to the river, and floated on.  
  
“The river snaked through the land, and as they floated, they dragged their net of magic behind them, to catch what they could find. That day, as they were dragging the net up to inspect their catch, the old brother spotted an old wooden chest. Convinced it was full of treasure, he and his brother floated the wooden chest onto the boat.  
  
“They marveled at the chest, and wondered what gold and jewels were hidden inside. Suddenly, the older brother became greedy. He took out his wand and Stunned the other brother, and tossed him overboard. As soon as the river took him away, the older brother secured the treasure and ensured his younger brother made it to land safely.”  
  
“How?” Harry interjects from where he’s leaning against Colmar’s ear. “Floated him to land?”  
  
Malfoy glares. “You want to hear the story or not?”  
  
Harry huffs but gestures for Malfoy to continue.  
  
“The older brother, sure that his sibling would pursue, sailed towards land, and headed towards the forest. He brought the chest along with him. The wooden chest was heavy, and drained the older brother’s strength as he floated it along behind him. Tired, he rested deep in the woods, tucked in some gnarled roots.  
  
“He woke before long, and, paranoid, set off again. He reached the other side of the forest and found an enormous mountain range ahead. To ensure his brother wouldn’t come and steal the treasure from him, the older brother set off to climb the tallest mountain. Only when he reached his peak did he rest.  
  
“But he didn’t rest for long.  Driven by greed, he built himself a castle on that mountain, the better to protect himself and his wooden chest. It took him years. After the castle was finished, he used his magic to dig deep into the mountain, creating a tunnel from within his castle. He lived in the deepest part of this tunnel, holding the chest close while he slept every night.  
  
“Years passed, and the older brother soon became as old as his father was when he’d left his home. All the while, he stayed in his castle, layering spell upon spell, ward upon ward, to keep all intruders away.  
  
“Across the forest, the younger brother had lived, and married a girl from the nearby village. He sat with his grandchildren on his knee, and told them stories. Once in a while, the younger brother told stories of the adventures of his older brother fondly. Never once did he think of his older brother with anything other than nostalgia and warmth.”  
  
“So the older brother dies,” Harry frowns, “And he doesn’t even know what’s in the wooden chest? It could be empty for all he knows.”  
  
Malfoy snorts and kicks his feet up. “How am I supposed to know? It’s just a story.”  
  
They have dinner, which consists of sandwiches that Malfoy snatched from the kitchens before they left and a swing and some each of the firewhiskey. Harry doesn’t crawl into Malfoy’s cot that night, but he does spend a decent amount of time thinking about it before falling asleep.  
  
The woods are lovely, dark and deep; Harry spends a lot of time at the safehouse before the end of the hols. Playing with a Snitch that Harry brings, racing on their brooms, or exploring the forest are a few ways they spend their time here. It’s nice; it’s slow and cold and quiet.  
  
Harry thinks about Malfoy’s stories, about the ancient dragon and old magic; he thinks that it has to be real because there’s no other way that Hogwarts and this land can be like this. It certainly didn’t feel like this during Harry’s first seven years. Yeah, alright, Voldemort’s not hanging over their heads, but it honestly feels like Colmar’s heart is here; she’s been eating, hunting, and living here. And now, the forest feels as though it’s breathing with them.  
  
Time passes quickly. Before any of them realize it, the hols are upon them. Unsurprisingly, Dean and Seamus and Ernie and Terry want to share a drink before they start leaving the next day, so they drag everyone into the decorated common room. Celestina Warbeck’s back on the wireless and everything’s nice and golden with a spot of butterbeer in Harry’s stomach.  
  
Outside of their glass window, snow piles down onto the castle grounds. It’s lovely and warm inside. Harry pulls out his bag of candy out and they all blow smoke and fire at each other after eating the Pepper Imps.  
  
Luna procures a dusty mistletoe from out of nowhere and sends it up, charming it to float dangerously over their heads. Seamus drags Dean in to stand underneath the thing and snogs the life out of him for good measure. Terry hoots and claps; Harry has to pull him back so he won’t inadvertently get stuck underneath the mistletoe as well, though Harry’s not quite sure that that isn’t his intention.  
  
Hannah spins around in front of the wireless while Luna waltzes on her own. Someone keeps bringing in more butterbeer and firewhiskey, so they all keep drinking. Harry finds himself in an animated conversation-cum-argument with Ginny and Ernie about Quidditch.  
  
Sometime during the evening, Harry wanders up to get another mug of butterbeer the same time Malfoy does -- the latter had been deep in conversation with Hermione in the corner; Harry should’ve known that they would’ve gotten on well enough.  
  
And of course, as soon as Harry knocks into Malfoy’s shoulders amiably, Luna’s charmed mistletoe chooses that moment to hover over them.  
  
Someone hoots with laughter and immediately, Harry can feel the magic bind him in place.  
  
“Yeah, alright,” Malfoy tells the lot. He turns back to Harry, who then smiles, lopsidedly, a little goofy. “You idiot,” Malfoy says, and he probably means it scorningly, but they’re both a little drunk and Malfoy’s cheeks are lovely pink.  
  
It’s feels completely natural for Malfoy to cup his hands around Harry’s head and lean in to smack a kiss against Harry’s cheek. His lips are warm and a little dry and soft.  
  
The spell breaks and Malfoy pulls away, but not too far, because he leans in and ruffles Harry’s hair, and Harry fucking _preens._  “You’re the idiot,” Harry says, all too fondly.  
  
“Yeah,” Malfoy says absently. His gaze slides towards the table they’ve turned into a bar, no doubt eyeing the firewhiskey there. “Come on, then.”


	7. At the Burrow, Then Grimmauld Place

Before heading to the burrow, Harry leaves for St. Mungo’s with Hermione and Ginny.  
  
They leave Hogwarts the day after the incident with the mistletoe, pausing only for a quick, but satisfying breakfast. They head downstairs with the rest of the Eighth Years, minus Hannah Abbott, Draco Malfoy, and Ernie Macmillan, who have already headed to their respective destinations for the break.  
  
The staff and the castle have outdone themselves this year; holly wreaths hang on every open door, and Flitwick has enchanted candles to hang in the air, emitting golden light across the corridors.  
  
Harry and the lot tuck into their full English, chatting a bit as they eat. Then, they head back up to the dormitories to finish packing.  
  
In the mess of the boys’ dormitories, Harry stands in a sea of dirty socks and half-clean trousers. He wishes he could wave his wand, and all of his clothes would fold into his trunk. Abruptly, he thinks of the time that Tonks had done so for him. He’s hit with a wave of loss, for a moment, and it almost overwhelms him.    
  
“Harry,” Ginny sticks her head in. “You almost ready?” She glances at the mess around and then wisely says, “I’ll wait for you in the common room.”  
  
Eventually, Harry sticks the essentials into his trunk and heads downstairs. Hermione and Ginny spot him and shoulder their bags, grab their trunks, to head out.  
  
They walk down the path, which has thankfully been cleared by magic, to Hogsmeade. The little thatched cottages and shops are blanketed by a crisp layer of snow, and patrons bustle to and fro, conversation filling the cool air. They arrive at the Hogsmeade station soon, and board a train.  
  
“Well,” Hermione says, as they tuck themselves into a cozy compartment at the back of the train, “Off we go.”  
  
“You sure you can’t stay at the Burrow?” Ginny asks curiously, looking over her magazine.  
  
“Positive,” Hermione says. She smiles ruefully. “Well, maybe I’ll be back in time for a bit, but I can’t guarantee.”  
  
Harry watches the cottages and inns grow gradually smaller and smaller, until Hogsmeade disappears across the horizon.  
  
Before they reach their station, they quickly change into Muggle clothing -- the better to fit in as they make their way to St. Mungo’s.  
  
Harry finishes stuffing his robes into his trunk as soon as the train pulls into a station in the very heart at London.  
  
“Oh,” Hermione says, looking down at their trunks and bags. “Give those here, we’ll put them away.” She holds out her small beaded handbag.  
  
Harry grins at her and she rolls her eyes as they stuff their belongings into the bag.  
  
“I can’t believe you still carry that around,” Harry comments, as they exit the train and head up the escalator.  
  
“It’s useful,” Hermione protests. “I still carry around a lot of useful things.”  
  
They emerge out onto the street. The air is wintry and biting, so Harry pulls his -- Malfoy’s -- scarf around tighter. “And you still keep Polyjuice Potion,” Harry adds.  
  
“It’s useful,” she says again airily, waving him off as they begin to make their way through the Christmas shoppers.  
  
Soon enough, they stand outside Purge and Dowse Ltd. It’s still shabby and old-fashioned; shoppers hustle by without a second glance, barely seeing the large sign that reads “Closed for Refurbishment.”  
  
Ginny neatly steps up to the ugly dummy with the neon green pinafore dress. “Ready?” she glances behind her at Harry and Hermione, who nod, and step closer to avoid the foot traffic. To the dummy Ginny says, “We’re here to see Ronald Weasley.”  
  
The dummy nods minutely and gestures for them to come forward with one finger. Automatically, Harry and Hermione grab onto Ginny’s arms as they step through the glass.  
  
“I’d forgotten how ugly the doll was,” Harry grimaces as they step into the lobby of St. Mungo’s. All around them, Healers in lime-green robes stride briskly past, clipboards in hand.  
  
They head to the main desk, where a plump witch sits in front of a portrait of Dilys Derwent. “Hello,” Hermione says, “We’re here to see Ronald Weasley.”  
  
The witch looks down at her parchment with a bored look. “Fourth floor, spell damage. Third door on the left, past the stairs. Laverne de Montmorency ward.”  
  
“Spell damage,” Harry says curiously, as they make their way to the lifts. “Wasn’t he in artifact accidents?”  
  
“They moved him this morning,” Hermione says, thumbing the pocket of her jeans. “Healers on the first floor couldn’t help much, much less diagnose him.”  
  
Harry frowns but follows as they pile into a lift. The lift fills rather quickly, and is about to shudder close when a wizard throws out his arm. “Hold it!”  
  
The wizard steps in, clutching at the newest edition of _Witch Weekly._ “It’s not for me,” he says defensively. “It’s for my wife.”  
  
The people in the lift titter but the doors to the lift finally close. Harry, Hermione, and Ginny are glad to leave when they finally reach the fourth floor. They exit with the man who holds _Witch Weekly_ ; he pushes past them and all but races out of the lift.  
  
“Blimey,” Ginny mumbles.  
  
They push through a large pair of double doors and into a narrow corridor, which is lined with portraits of probably more famous Healers. Healers stride up and down the corridor, the typical emblem of a wand and bone crossed embroidered on their chests. The hallway is lit by eerie floating orbs of whitish light. Every now and then, a door opens and the faint sound of muttering can be heard.  
  
They walk down the corridor and climb a flight of stairs, entering a separate corridor, where the third door on the left bears the words “Laverne de Montmorency ward: undetectable magic.” Underneath this is a card in a brass holder, on which has been written: “Healer-in-Charge: Keemi Daius, Trainee Healer: Clift Morkor.”  
  
As they enter, Harry immediately sees that Ron’s been set up on the cot closest to the window, furthest away from the door. There are only three other cots in the ward: the first, closest to the door, quarters a man hacking raspily into his pillow, his cough as dry as parchment. Black blood stains his pillow. The next cot holds half a wizard, the entirety of his left body missing. His right eye blinks eerily. In the cot next to Ron sleeps a strange man who, like Ron, seems to have no physical mutations at all.  
  
They head to Ron’s cot quickly, where he’s resting against several pillows. His face is pale, illuminated by a thick stripe of sunlight falling onto his cot from the window.  
  
Without a word, Hermione pulls up a chair and sits close to Ron. Harry and Ginny follow suit.  
  
“I was just in last week to visit,” Hermione explains to Harry and Ginny, though her eyes don’t leave Ron. “They say he hasn’t been getting better.”  
  
Before Harry can say anything, the ward door opens again and voices float in.  
  
“Oh, Arthur, I told you you shouldn’t have -- ”  
  
They turn at the sound of Molly Weasley and wave her over.  
  
“Oh, Harry, good to see you,” Mrs. Weasley says, smiling. She embraces him before kissing Ginny on the forehead and pulling up a chair next to Hermione. To Harry, she continues, “You are much too thin, it’d do you good to come over for Christmas.”  
  
“Leave the man alone, Mum,” Charlie Weasley comes up, brushing his red hair out of his face. “Hey, Harry. ‘Mione.” Charlie knocks Ginny playfully in the elbow and she sticks her tongue out at him.  
  
George Weasley and Arthur Weasley soon follow, coming up and greeting them while pooling around Ron’s cot. Harr’s reminded uncomfortably of the last time he was in a hospital wing with Arthur Weasley -- when the man was recovering from Nagini’s bites.  
  
As the family settles down around Ron, Harry awkwardly excuses himself from the ward, letting George take his spot as he heads back out into the dark corridor. The ward door closes gently behind him.  
  
Harry rests his back against the corridor wall, and stares up at the collection of floating orbs there. He wonders of Luna would know what they were.  
  
The wizard with the latest edition of _Witch Weekly_ walks by and stops in front of the door to the Laverne de Montmorency ward, before slipping inside.  
  
A few Healers walk by, scribbling onto their clipboards, but other than that, this ward is quiet. Harry thinks back to the time he sat next to a petrified Hermione during their Second Year. It’s like this, a bit, except now, Harry feels more confident in what they’ll do: find a way into the Ministry, figure out where the Death Eaters are, and find out what spells they’ve cast to curse the Purebloods of Hogwarts.  
  
Harry watches a woman with icicles dangling from her nose walk by when the ward door opens and shuts again.  
  
“Hey, Charlie,” Harry says, looking up at the Weasley brother.  
  
“Right mess in there,” Charlies says, shaking his head and leaning against the corridor wall in a similar pose to Harry. “I hate hospitals, I do.”  
  
“Yeah,” Harry agrees. “I don’t blame you.”  
  
“Do you think he’ll get better?” Charlie asks, looking away.  
  
Harry blinks, surprised. “I mean, the Healers said they’ll find something -- ”  
  
“Yeah, I know what the Healers said.” Charlie scrubs his eyes with the back of his hand. “It’s just, there’s been a lot of curses like this, I’ve seen.”  
  
“You have?”  
  
“I’ve been working in Austria, has Ron told you? Bloody beautiful there, but there’s still some witches or wizards who turn up once in awhile. Cursed by some enemy from the past.”  
  
“You reckon that’s what this is?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Charlie turns a calculating look onto Harry. “Do you?”  
  
“Yeah,” Harry says honestly. “I do. Him, Neville Longbottom, Slughorn -- all like this. There’s something, or someone out there.”  
  
“Christ,” Charlie rubs his eyes again. “Just when I thought things were getting better.”  
  
“How’s Austria?” Harry interrupts quickly.  
  
Charlie launches into a lengthy explanation of the Austrian landscape and the alps there. “It’s bloody incredible,” he says, hands waving, “There’s hills of flowers but snow in the mountains, and the cliffs -- they just come right out of the earth -- nothing like here, I tell you.”  
  
“You’re working with dragons there?”  
  
“Some,” Charlie nods. “They’re a bit feisty, and stockier than the ones I’m used to in Romania, but still good as well.”  
  
Harry half wants to bring up Colmar, but then decides it’d be best just to play off as curious for the moment. He opens his mouth to ask about the difference between Austrian dragons and Romanian ones, but is interrupted when the ward door opens again.  
  
Charlie’s swept away by his mum and dad and brother; Hermione comes up and exclaims, “There you are Harry! We were wondering where you got to.”  
  
Harry mumbles a half-arsed excuse as they head back to the station.  
  
There’s a quiet Apparating spot hidden in a maintenance closet, which Arthur Weasley leads them to. “Come on then, back to the Burrow. It’s been a long day.” Charlie and George file in first, the closet door swinging shut as they head in. A loud _crack!_ fills the air and Arthur Weasley swings open the door for Harry and Ginny.  
  
“Well,” Harry turns to Hermione. “I… ”  
  
She smiles at him fondly, and takes his arm. “Have a nice holiday, Harry.”  
  
He settles for a sincere, “Good luck,” and steps away so she can hug Ginny goodbye. Harry nods his thanks to Mr. Weasley as he walks into the closet; Arthur claps him on the shoulder, but his face looks long and tired.  
  
Ginny steps in soon after. Harry proffers his arm and she clutches it tight as they Apparate back to the Burrow.  
  
It’s dark outside, when they arrive.  
  
The fields of tall grass surrounding the Burrow sway gently in the evening breeze. From this distance, the empty fields of grass surrounding the lopsided house give off the impression of a rolling sea. Which, Harry supposes, makes the Burrow a ship sailing the waves.  
  
The lights are on in the house.  
  
“Must be Bill and Fleur,” Ginny says brightly. “They were supposed to come in tonight. They’re early, I reckon.”  
  
A few yards away, Charlie and George are already making their way to the Burrow. As Harry and Ginny follow suit, a loud _crack!_ signals the arrival of Arthur and Molly.  
  
“Well then,” Molly says, as they all head in. “Bill? Is that you?”  
  
“Here, Mum,” a voice floats in from the living room. Harry follows Charlie and George, heading further into the house to greet Bill.  
  
His fang earring is making a reappearance, though his hair is shorter, and less unruly than it was before. Bill sits next to Fleur Delacour, who beams at Harry. They all say their hellos; Bill looks more exuberant than the rest of the Weasleys, drawing Harry and Charlie into a lively conversation about goblins and zythum -- Egyptian malt beer.  
  
Before long, the delicious smell of Mrs. Weasley’s cooking fills the air.  
  
“Really,” she scolds Bill as they get up to help set the table. “You should’ve told me you were coming earlier. I would’ve made more food for you all!”  
  
“Mum,” Bill insists, as he holds a platter of roast parsnips and potatoes above Ginny’s head, so she can duck under him and place utensils on the three tables that Arthur Weasley has pushed together, stretching from the edge of the kitchen into the living room. “It’s really fine, Fleur and I don’t mind -- ”  
  
“It iz fine,” Fleur insists, flicking her silvery hair over her shoulder. “Zis iz deelicious.”  
  
“Oh,” Molly says, sticking her head and pinks cheeks out of the steaming kitchen, “Well, I suppose I can make do… ”  
  
Before long, dinner is finished, and they all pile into the tables. Percy arrives just as Molly sets the last plate of roast beef onto the table.  
  
“Percy,” Arthur calls, “Come on in.”  
  
They sit down and tuck in. For the first few minutes, all Harry hears are requests to pass dishes and plates, and the sound of metal clinking against plates and bowls. Harry piles his own plate full of roasted vegetables and goose.  
  
As they finish the first bites of their dinner, conversation begins to wafts up from the table. Harry’s elbows brush against Ginny’s -- on his left -- and Fleur’s -- on his right. Across from him is Percy, and next to him is Arthur Weasley.  
  
“So,” Arthur begins awkwardly, “The Department of Magical Transportation, eh?”  
  
“Yes,” Percy stiffly. “We’re working on reorganizing the Floo Network. Right bit of work, since the Death Eaters rewired about half of it during the war.”  
  
“Reauthorizing connections and all that?” Arthur asks around a mouthful of potato.  
  
Percy stabs a piece of roast parsnip. “Yes, the whole network’s had to be redrawn. Not easy work… ”  
  
Next to him, Ginny’s asking Bill about his travels.  
  
“…And so I walked into the bar,” Bill says, waving his forkful of goose, “And the witch there said, are you mad? I’m not serving you, you take that frog, and get out of here!”  
  
The table around Bill bursts into uproarious laughter. Harry chokes on his carrots and Ginny bangs on his back. “Been kicked out of a lot of Libyan bars, have you?” George asks. Bill’s laughing too hard to anwer.  
  
A few bites and sips of apple cider later, they’re still chortling.  
  
Further down the table, Charlie and Fleur chat about Gringotts. Fleur imitates a particularly feisty goblin while Charlie hoots with laughter.  
  
After they put away their dinner, Mrs. Weasley brings out homemade chocolate ice cream, which she lands onto the table with a flourish of her wand. Harry digs in with relish even though he’s already put away several plates of delicious food.  
  
They talk and eat for a while, the dinner tables sagging with the combined weight of delicious food and leaning elbows. Overhead, the lights of the Burrow burn low and comforting.  
  
Bill and Fleur turn in first. Molly Weasley gets up to organize sleeping arrangements: she gives Bill and Fleur the guest room, and puts Harry in with Charlie while Percy gets to share with George. Ginny, luckily, gets a room to herself.  
  
“Right, then, Harry,” Charlie comes up and grins at the prospect of rooming with Harry. Harry smiles back.  
  
After helping Mrs. Weasley clean quickly, Charlie leads Harry to his room.  
  
“Used to share with Bill,” Charlie explains, ducking into his room. “Guess now he’s allowed to stay with his wife.”  
  
Harry remembers the winter when Fleur roomed with Ginny.  
  
They clean up and settle in quickly. Harry says goodnight and falls asleep staring at the poster of a brown dragon Charlie has up in his room.  
  
The rest of that first week passes in a similar fashion.  
  
It’s so, so good:  
  
Harry gets to spend time with Charlie, and finds that he likes the Weasley. Charlie’s so freckly he almost looks tan; he’s stocky and well-built, with scratches and shiny burns up and down his arms and legs and back. One night, they settle into his room and they burn through nearly two candles as he tells stories of how he got each one.  
  
“I got through my apprenticeship in Ireland without a scratch,” he’d explained, “My first day on a real job, going face to face with one of the dragons, I got this.” One gnarled finger points to the large burn on nearly the entire blade of his left shoulder. Charlie grins wryly. “That morning, I walked out to the pens to meet one of the dragons, Yamil. Turned my back on him. That’s the first lesson you learn. Never turn your back on one of them.”  
  
“But the dragons,” Harry asks, “These ones you don’t raise in captivity, right?” Two beds fit snug in Charlie’s room, each one pressed up against opposite walls, leaving a space in the middle. Harry’s halfway sprawled across one of them, on his back, staring up into the ceiling.  
  
“Well, some of them. Dragons are elusive enough already, but the females especially when they’re ready to lay their eggs. Hard to find eggs, hard to raise them in cages. Once they are in cages, it’s hard to find dragons that’ll breed under our watch. They’re smart creatures.” Charlie leans back against the wall. “Anyway, I never turned my back on a dragon again.”  
  
“So then, it’s hard to breed them? Is it easier when they’re with their same kind?”  
  
“Well,” Charlie says, “It’s a finicky thing.” Charlie sits up, clearly excited to share. “Newt Scamander and a lot of modern Magizoologists tend to group them by breed. There’s ten pure breeds, like Hungarian Horntails, Hebridean Black, the common Welsh Green.”  
  
“But they’re related to elements, aren’t they? The four elements -- ”  
  
“Earth, air, fire, water,” Charlie agrees, sounding pleased. “Old breeders grouped dragons by the color, and that corresponded with their element.”  
  
“It’s got to do with old magic, hasn’t it?”  
  
“Ancient magic,” Charlie gives Harry an appraising look, “Not so common nowadays with breeders.”  
  
“Is it real?” Harry frowns. “Ancient magic? What is it, exactly?”  
  
“Oh, blimey. I’m not the one to ask that, but I’ll do my best, yeah? Keep in mind, there’s loads of people out there who’ll do a better job than me explaining, but here’s what I know.” Charlie thumbs his wand. “Ancient magic is, well, ancient.” Charlie cocks his head and grins in a way so similar to Ron that Harry’s chest clenches for a split second. “Basically, it’s like the stuff of legend. It’s what Merlin and Morgan le Fay used, according to myths. They didn’t use spells -- at all. They just -- _did_ magic. They wanted stuff to happen, and it happened for them. Takes some finesse, I reckon. That’s why so few of them could use it, at the time.  
  
“Dragons use magic like that. Their hearts are used for witchcraft and wizardry all the time, and their scales are always used in armor and potions. Since they’re so closely related to ancient magic, it makes it easier for us to use spells, and do -- well -- whatever we want.”  
  
“So,” Harry scratches his head, “Ancient magic is real?”  
  
“I mean, I reckon it is. It’s what we use today, except, now we have a language to control it. I suppose what I meant is that Merlin and Morgana and them were so powerful and mythical because they could use magic, without a language. They just thought of what they wanted -- they literally _willed_ what they wanted to happen, to happen.”  
  
Harry spends a minute absorbing the information. Charle switches out the candle he’d been floating in the middle of the room, replacing it with a fresh one.  
  
“So the eggs,” Harry says, “Do the dragons interbreed on their own?”  
  
“They’re smart. Much smarter than anyone probably thinks they are. They’ve got a mind of their own, so if they don’t get along, they don’t mate. In captivity, there’s even less options. If you force them… well, dragons are magical, even as babies, in their eggs. A dragon egg is laid ready to hatch -- there’s a fully developed dragon inside watching to hatch.”  
  
Harry guesses: “But it won’t.”  
  
“Right. In the wild, eggs hatched when they felt another magical presence, something big, like their dragon mother or father. It looks for the energy and when it hatches, it imprints on that magical source.  
  
_Well, fuck_ , Harry thinks. “Can they imprint on people?”  
  
“Not at our pound. There’re loads of eggs we try to hatch and too many difference wizards and witches running around. It’s been attempted with varying degrees of success, especially with smaller breeds.  
  
“Anyway,” Charlie says, pulling his blankets over himself, “We got distracted, mate. This one…”  
  
Harry listens as Charlie goes on, pointing to a new scar and providing an accompanying story. He ends with a tale involving a half-Veela and a bottle of firewhiskey, which Harry can’t quite discern whether or not is true. Regardless, they laugh so hard Percy bangs on the wall from next door, before finally settling in to sleep.  
  
Harry also gets to spend more time with Ginny. They de-gnome the garden and put up Christmas decorations, cleaning the Burrow and helping Arthur Weasley tinker with his Muggle appliances. They talk and they joke.  
  
It’s less awkward, definitely, now. And it’s almost as though things went back to the way they were -- before. He plays Exploding Snap with her and George and Charlie, sometimes Bill, too, if he can be convinced.  
  
One memorable night, a day or two before boxing day, Harry wakes only a few hours after falling asleep. George shakes him and Charlie awake, and the three of them plus Ginny sneak downstairs.  
  
It’s not really as though they can get into trouble anymore -- hell, most of them are adults -- but there’s something nice about pretending. So they all put up Silencing charms and Harry all but stuffs his fist into his mouth to stop from laughing when George trips over who-knows-what in the darkness of the living room as they try to set up the Floo in near total darkness.  
  
They wander through a sleepy Diagon Alley. After some urging, Harry relents and takes them to Muggle London, where there’s this fantastic shop that’s selling Mexican food. They order fish tacos and carne asada burritos and horchata -- a kind of rice milk.  
  
Some odd details stick out: the perfect soft, warm, slightly doughy texture of the flour tortilla; the little dispensary bar where they get to scoop out roasted tomato salsa and put limes into the little black plastic cups; the brilliant flash of Ginny’s hair as she laughs at Harry’s remark; the washed out quality of the entire shop -- fluorescent lights against off white walls and linoleum tiling -- and the timeless quality of the place, like somewhere where time doesn’t exist, where reality’s a bit altered. Like at an empty gas station at night, or in an empty parking lot.  
  
Anyway, there’s a bit of a fiasco as they’re waiting for their food under the washed-out fluorescent lights: there’s a fight outside and Harry’s fingers itch for his wand, but they get their food and get the hell out of there without any trouble.  
  
“Good trip?” Bill asks when they Floo back. He’s sitting with his feet propped up on the couch in the living room, paging idly through an old paper.  
  
“Thanks for holding down the fort,” George gives Bill a shit-eating grin.  
  
“Oh, yeah,” Bill says sarcastically, “And thanks for the invite.”  
  
Harry tosses Bill an extra burrito, then they all head upstairs, into Charlie’s room.  
  
“And one of them, he gets up and goes like this -- ” Ginny’s burrito very nearly falls out of her hand as she mimics one of the Muggles they saw outside of the Mexican shop; Harry leans over to righten it up for her so the stuff inside won’t fall out.  
  
“The worker,” Charlie laughs, wiping his eyes, “She didn’t even _blink -- ”_ _  
_ _  
_ “God! She just kept taking our order!”  
  
“Probably sees shite like that go down all the time -- she works the 2AM shift, what d’you expect?”  
  
Harry never wants to leave this bubble, this home away from Hogwarts that has been tarnished, that has always been blemished all these years because of the war hanging over their heads, and now he finally has, without worry --  
  
But here’s the thing: there’s still a blemish. There’s still an empty space on the floor in Charlie’s bedroom perfect for the size of another bedroll; the seat at the table next to Harry is filled by Fleur -- who never laughs at Charlie’s crude jokes -- or Ginny -- who never knicks from Harry’s plate -- or Percy -- who, to borrow a phrase, wouldn't recognize a joke if it danced naked in front of him wearing Dobby's tea cozy.  
  
And while Harry gets to compare his newfound knowledge of dragons with Charlie, and gets to experiment with the latest line of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, it doesn’t feel quite right to be without Ron and Hermione.  
  
But it’s alright. When Hermione comes back, they’ll have a plan to get into the Ministry. That’s what Harry tells himself so he can ease his worrying.  
  
The first few days of the hols fly by. Pretty soon, the wreaths, tinsel, and magical decorations hang all over the Burrow.  
  
On the morn of Christmas eve, Harry finishes washing up and heads to the scullery to put his dirty clothes in with the rest of the washing. He sees Mrs. Weasley there only after he’s swung the door open, dirty socks and trousers clenched in his fists.  
  
“Oh,” she sniffles, “Harry, sorry, I didn’t see you dear -- ” She clutches one of Fred’s old jumpers. Her nose is blotchy and red.  
  
“Er,” Harry says. “Sorry, I’ll just -- ”  
  
“Don’t be silly,” Molly says, wiping her left eye, “Don’t mind me, I’m just -- ”  
  
Harry edges towards the door just as Molly puts down the sweater. “I keep finding his old jokes -- in his trousers and his old room,” Mrs. Weasley says. She turns away to fold the old jumper and Harry looks towards the door. But he decides that he owes her this much, so he leans back against the door.  
  
“I never told him -- I never said that I was proud of him, and the joke shop, you know.” She pulls a handkerchief out of her wand. “I always thought they were just wandering. Like Charlie -- he did a bit of it, with wanting to play Quidditch and working with the league before settling down.” She peers at him through teary eyes. “And I just -- I just wanted the best for them, because I wanted them to be able to support themselves. I never thought that they could do that with the joke shop.”  
  
“But,” Harry says tentatively, “They can, now. And they have.”  
  
“There’s nothing wrong with being poor, but. It’s hard.” She wrings her hand. “Anyway, we make do. We do the best we can. Oh,” she fusses with her handkerchief. “Don’t listen to me rambling on.”  
  
“No,” Harry swallows the lump in his throat. “No, I know what you mean.”  
  
“This war has affected all of us, dear, but our lives keep going on. So we just keep up at it.” She folds up her handkerchief. “Oh, look at that,” she glances at the clock. “I have to get the lamb in the oven. Would you mind sending Charlie into the yard? He promised to help Arthur.”  
  
Molly puts herself together and they head out into the kitchen. In a few hours, the smell of her delicious cooking permeates the air.  
  
Hermione returns just in time for their Christmas feast, her hair bushy and cheeks pink. Harry intends to ask her about Australia but everyone crowds her, so Harry decides he’ll ask later.  
  
Christmas dinner consists of delicious vegetables, mashed potatoes, turkey and stuffing, loads and loads of mince pies, goose, and green beans. Everyone digs in excitedly and eggnog flows almost as fluidly as their conversation.  
  
After the savory plates have been put away, Mrs. Weasley disappears into the kitchen, reappearing with floating plates of plum pudding and a fruity trifle.  
  
As they finish off the last of their desserts, Arthur Weasley puts on a particularly jazzy number by Celestina Warbeck, called “A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love.” Bill offers a hand to Fleur and they twirl around Mrs. Weasley, dodging dirty dishes and drained glasses gracefully as she floats them back into the kitchen.  
  
George and Charlie start a game of Exploding Snap with Ginny; Hermione snags a seat next to Harry by the fire.  
  
“How was it?” Harry asks, loud enough so that Hermione can hear over Ginny’s tinkling laughter and the warbling of Celestina Warbeck.  
  
“Australia?” Hermione leans back in her chair. “It was -- it was fine. I found them, but,” she wrings her hands.  
  
_Oh, come and stir my cauldron,_ _  
_ _And if you do it right --_  
  
Harry reaches out and grips her hand, tightly.  
  
“Anyway,” she discreetly wipes an eye and Harry looks away. “I visited Ron. They say -- his Healer says he’s getting better.” Hermione shrugs half-heartedly. They both know better than to believe that. _  
_ _  
_ _I’ll boil you up some hot strong love_ _  
_ _To keep you warm tonight!_ _  
_ _  
_ The rest of the week passes quickly, and Harry, true to his word, makes preparations to head back to Grimmauld Place to visit Andromeda and Teddy Lupin.  
  
When he asks Hermione to come with, she nods excitedly: “I’d love to!”  
  
They leave the Burrow with one week of the hols left. The morning of is a slow, and sad, affair. Harry comes downstairs with his bags packed and a rumpled head of hair. Arthur, Charlie, and Fleur are tucking into breakfast, but stand to hug Hermione and Harry when they come into the kitchen. Molly heaps them with kisses and hugs and a few promises of sending cakes to Grimmauld Place.  
  
Charlie claps Harry on the back: “Be sure to owl me, yeah? I’ll keep you updated on Yamil.” Harry had been putting off telling Charlie about Colmar; it’s strange to think of someone else visiting, or even knowing, about that place: the place beyond the pines and firs, along the ocean cliffs and valleys. To bring someone outside of Hogwarts there would be to break the spell of it all; even Hermione has never ventured so far into the woods that she wouldn’t be able to see the log cabin.  
  
So Harry doesn’t tell Charlie -- not yet. Only McGonagall and Hermione know, though Harry suspects it’ll be time for Hagrid to check up on Colmar soon.  
  
Ginny hugs Harry fiercely before he and Hermione head out to the front of the Burrow It’s impossible to stop a sharp pang from surging through his chest: Harry feels like this goodbye is more somber than any other he’s had recently. Once Eighth Year is over, they’ll all be on their ways and Harry won’t be able to enjoy hols -- not like this, really.  
  
Anyway, Harry and Hermione finish up their goodbyes, promising to visit soon, and Apparate from the front of the Burrow to London.  
  
Snow blankets the street of Grimmauld Place. Harry and Hermione quickly make their way to number 12 to get out of the cold.  
  
Number 12, Grimmauld Place emerges between eleven and thirteen quickly. Though the windows are no longer quite as grimy as what they once were, the walls are still dirty and brown.  
  
As they their way up the stone steps, Harry notices that the door has been repainted a glossy black, and the twisted silver serpent knocked has been polished.  
  
Hermione taps the front door with her wand.  
  
Andromeda Tonks opens the door with a baby on her hip. “Harry, Hermione,” she says warmly, “Come on in, get out of the cold.”  
  
12 Grimmauld Place has undergone a proper renovation under Andromeda’s care. The home is much warmer, more inviting than when it was under Sirius or Harry: the walls have been stripped of their bleak wallpaper, repainted and clean; the enormous chandeliers are free of spiderwebs, and the infamous troll-leg umbrella stand and shrunken house-elf heads are nowhere to be found.  
  
“Cleaning up hasn’t been too terrible,” Andromeda says, escorting them to the drawing room. “When Sirius was here, Molly cleaned up the place pretty well. I’ve only found a few doxies left.”  
  
It’s been a few years but Harry still feels an uncomfortable twinge at the mention of his godfather’s name.  
  
The long windows in the drawing room face the street in front of the house, letting in white sunlight. Heavy golden chandeliers hang overhead; an oil painting hangs over the spacious fireplace. Emerald curtains decorate the windows, and a tasteful green wallpaper covers the old peeling gray interior. A few armchairs arranged around a low tea table match the palette as well. Slytherin colors, Harry thinks.  
  
“It’s looking nice,” Harry agrees.  
  
“Mostly only the attic and the basement left. It’s good work. Keeps my head clear.”  
  
They talk for a little while longer, mostly doting on Teddy, who babbles nonsensically, his hair rippling colors. Teddy grabs onto Hermione’s curls, his chubby fists tangling in in her hair.  
  
This is when Harry notices the letter.  
  
On the tea table is a set of fine china, and a few pieces of parchment. One letter has a familiar black and green crest on it.  
  
“That’s -- ” Harry gestures towards the letter. Andromeda sits across from Harry, nursing a cup of tea while she watches Hermione play with Teddy. “Who’s that from?”  
  
Andromeda sets her cup down. “Draco Malfoy. But you knew that,” she guesses.  
  
“It was either him or his mother,” Harry shrugs.  
  
“He’s been well,” Hermione comments from where she leans against a couch, watching Teddy babble. “He’s back at Hogwarts.”  
  
“I’ve heard. His mother is abroad, though.”  
  
“In France,” Harry says.  
  
Hermione asks: “You’ve been in correspondence with them?”  
  
“Mostly my sister. She wrote me after the war.”  
  
Hermione and Andromeda continue discussing their Eighth Year and Hogwarts, but Harry’s mind can’t concentrate on much after that. His mind keeps doubling back to Malfoy’s stories and Colmar. He thinks that he will have to visit Colmar sometime during this break.  
  
They help Andromeda make dinner and eat quickly. Kreacher pokes his head out and bows lowly in front of Hermione and Harry.  
  
Afterwards, Hermione takes the bedroom on the first floor. Harry takes the guest room on the third, above a level from where Andromeda sleeps and the nursery containing Teddy’s crib.  
  
That night, before he sleeps, Harry scribbles out a quick note on the back of Malfoy’s envelope. To Andromeda’s owl, Harry says, “Bring it back to him, will you?”


	8. Sequestered Nights

The next two days, Harry and Hermione help Andromeda clear out the house.  
  
Andromeda’s right: cleaning out the house is good work. It’s a bit like rebuilding at Hogwarts; it feels like they’re making a fresh start, making things right again. And the labor is actually exhausting. Most tasks work Harry up to a sweat, since the old things in the house are, well, old. And stubborn, and feisty. It takes a few hours to clear a path through the basement of the Black house, since they’ve all just been throwing their paraphernalia in there since the beginning of the war.  
  
“Look at all this,” Hermione says, removing the multiple Disillusionment charms around the basement. In addition to the gear that the Order of the Phoenix have stored in here, there appears to be antiques and artefacts from the Black family as well, cast away. It’s not unlike the version of the Room of Requirement in which Harry stowed away the Half-Blood Prince’s potions book.  
  
Hermione finds two cups that appear to be carved out of some type of horn. Harry pulls out an enormous Black Forest cuckoo clock, one that almost comes up to his waist. All the carvings are done in walnut: a detailed stag head at the top and vines and hunting dogs all around the sides. Fine carvings reveal an ibex, and fox, along with a tendril of vine curling around two wands. Andromeda finds a Satsuma piece, glazed and gilded with impossibly small details and patterns, including two oriental dragons flying across the enamel.  
  
“And this!” Andromeda hoists it up. “It looks like a shinzou vase.”  
  
Harry leans in to inspect the thing. The dragons are made of a material separate from the porcelain, their heads about the size of Harry’s thumb, casting shadows over the rest of the vase. Harry touches a porcelain fang delicately. “A what?”  
  
“A shinzou vase.” Andromeda cups the base in one hand and grips the black and gilded bird -- it looks almost like a phoenix -- that serves as the top of the porcelain piece. She lifts the lid and Harry peers in. “A neat container that the Japanese use to store magical items. The animals are sometimes imbued with magic to protect the contents of the vase.” Andromeda taps the shinzou. “Not this one, apparently.”  
  
“How do you know?” Hermione asks curiously. “I’ve never heard of one before.”  
  
“I studied abroad in Wizarding Japan for a while. I went to the Akihito School of Magic for almost a term.”  
  
“I never knew that,” Harry says, interested.  
  
Andromeda tells them about the onsen, the natural outdoor hot springs, in Japan: apparently, red-faced, brown-furred snow monkeys share these hot springs with the locals as well. She talks about the chatty bronze statues and calligraphy. By the time Harry and Hermione begins asking eager questions, they’ve finished clearing the basement.  
  
That night, over an intriguing conversation about Japanese fermented soybean and bonito flakes, they eat their dinner. Andromeda waves off their questions to take care of Teddy, and Hermione and Harry reluctantly let her go.  
  
“I didn’t have a chance to visit Wizarding Australia when I was there,” Hermione says wistfully, a hand propped up on her chin.  
  
Harry gets up and waves the dishes over to the sink. “It’d be nice to see other Wizarding communities.”  
  
“Wouldn’t it? Maybe we could go to France, one day. It’s close!”  
  
Harry hums in agreement as he starts doing the dishes.  
  
With a flick of her wand, Hermione Summons a few candles and Accios her textbooks, spreading them across the clean dining table to study.  
  
Just as Harry finishes the last plate, there’s a knock on the door.  
  
“I’ll get it,” Harry says. He dries his hands off and walks to the door.  
  
Malfoy stands on the front step of 12 Grimmauld Place when Harry opens the door.  
  
“I have something that I think you want to see,” Malfoy says lowly, his expression tight. His black cloak is drawn tightly around him; with the wind swirling snowflakes in the air, Malfoy’s cheeks are pink and his hair slightly ruffled.  
  
“Hi,” Harry says. “Alright.”  
  
Malfoy pushes past Harry in a rush of rustling fabric and snow, striding towards the kitchen like he’s been there before -- which, Harry thinks, he probably has, when the Blacks still lived here.  
  
“Oh,” Hermione looks up, “Draco -- ”  
  
Harry first thinks: _since when did she call him Draco?_ But then his attention turns back to the scene before him as Malfoy pushes aside Hermione’s papers.  
  
“Thorfinn Rowle,” Malfoy says, pulling out a piece of parchment and circling a name. Harry leans over his shoulder. The paper appears to be a transaction of sorts, detailing the transfer of a sizeable amount of Galleons from one account to another. “Augustus Rookwood. Rabastan Lestrange.”  
  
“What’s all of this?” Hermione frowns, leaning close as well.  
  
“All of the transactions from the Malfoy accounts within the last four months. These three -- Rowle, Rookwood, and Lestrange -- all withdrew from my father’s account following the Battle of Hogwarts.”  
  
“Well, how come the Ministry doesn’t know about this?” Harry frowns, “I thought -- ”  
  
“I visited my mother,” Malfoy says hastily, “In France. She gave me access to the offshore accounts, in Switzerland -- ”  
  
“Offshore banking accounts,” Hermione groans, putting her head in her hands. “Of course.”  
  
“I didn’t know about them,” Malfoy protest, “I would’ve -- ”  
  
Harry interrupts, “Alright, so what does this tell us?”  
  
“Rookwood, Rowle, and Lestrange are all alive, and on the run. They had an agreement with my father, I presume, where they could withdraw a certain amount from the account. Of course, it’s all transcribed, so I assume he’d collect the interest -- ”  
  
“We can trace them,” Hermione infers. “If there’s only the one account in Switzerland, then we can assume they withdrew from there?”  
  
Malfoy shakes his head. “It’s not like Gringotts. The banking system there, Weissmattzer, is also run by goblins, but it’s all over the continent. You can connect your vaults, and withdraw from wherever you want.”  
  
“So, the account -- your family’s account -- can be based in Switzerland, but you can withdraw from any bank?” Harry asks.  
  
“Weissmattzer prides itself on privacy and accessibility. How else would old rich wizards retrieve more money for a Brandy Brew on their vacations?”  
  
Harry rolls his eyes.  
  
“So,” Hermione taps her lip, “Mafalda Hopkirk leaves tomorrow to head to New York. I Polyjuice into her, and find the list of war criminals that Shacklebolt is hunting down. Theoretically, I also find the locations of where he’s sending Aurors to find them. Then what?”  
  
“We have to tell Shacklebolt,” Malfoy frowns. “We can’t go after them.”  
  
“He won’t let us,” Harry shakes his head. “There’s no way. And besides, we can’t prove that any of them are linked to the illnesses.”  
  
Slowly, Hermione says: “You do understand that we’re simply searching for the Death Eaters that fled the Battle of Hogwarts, correct? We don’t have anything to connect them to the illnesses. We’re going off of a newspaper clipping that we don’t even know if Astoria meant for us to see. This is an enormous leap.”  
  
“It’s the only lead we have right now,” Harry insists. “And,” he leans back, “I figure it doesn’t hurt to try. I just -- look, I just want to help. To do something. I don’t want to sit around helplessly while my friends are hurt.”  
  
Hermione exhales shallowly. Malfoy looks at Harry.  
  
After a short silence, Hermione says, “Alright.” She waves her wand and her papers clean themselves up. “I’ll start preparing then.”  
  
“You can’t possibly think that you can waltz into the Ministry yourself,” Malfoy frowns.  
  
She frowns back. “As a matter of fact, I think I can. I know Mafalda well enough to impersonate her.”  
  
Harry shakes his head. “He’s right, ‘Mione. Security tripled since the Battle of Hogwarts.”  
  
“I was there,” Malfoy says, “For the trials. Over the summer. I know how to get in, and I know how to get out.”  
  
Hermione turns to Harry. “And I suppose you’ll want to come along as well.”  
  
“We’re not letting you go alone.”  
  
Before Hermione can protest, footsteps clunk down the stairs.  
  
“Is that you, Draco?” Andromeda appears in the doorway to the kitchen, baby Teddy slung across her hip.  
  
“Andromeda,” Malfoy says stiffly. He straightens up. _Draco_ , Harry thinks. _Draco, Draco, Draco._  
  
“Come here, let me have a look at you.”  
  
Harry and Hermione wisely make their excuses to head upstairs to the guest room, where Harry’s staying. He doesn’t have enough strength to go into Sirius’ room, yet.  
  
“I wonder how much they’ve talked,” Hermione says in a hushed tone, taking a seat at the end of Harry’s bed. “A lot, I suppose. She didn’t seem… ” Hermione trails off.  
  
“Angry,” Harry finishes. “Yeah. I reckon it’s lonely for her, here,” Harry guesses, guiltily.  
  
“You have school. You can’t be here, all the time,” Hermione chides gently.  
  
Harry shrugs. “Suppose so.”  
  
Hermione leaves a little while later, disappearing to the first floor and presumably her bedroom. Harry stays up, lying supine on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He leaves his door open.  
  
When Malfoy and Andromeda head to bed Harry never knows, because the next thing he remembers is waking up with his glasses mashed up against his face, from where he fell asleep without taking them off.  
  
Groaning, Harry pulls himself up and stumbles out of the room. He heads to the bathroom and washes up. The sound of a baby crying wafts upstairs.  
  
Harry opens the bathroom when he’s finished and very nearly runs into one Draco Malfoy.  
  
“Oh,” Harry says. “Sorry. I -- didn’t see you.”  
  
Malfoy looks at him oddly, and heads into the bathroom.  
  
Afterwards, they meet downstairs, in the drawing room.  
  
“Master Malfoy,” Kreacher croaks, as soon as Malfoy steps into the room. “‘Tis a pleasure to serve a member of the Malfoy household once more.”  
  
“Right,” Malfoy says, looking uncomfortable.  
  
Hermione pulls out a vial of nasty-looking Polyjuice from her robes. “Mafalda and I are around the same height and size,” she says, eyeing the potion. “I think these robes will blend in fine.” Today, Hermione’s traded her jeans and sweater for a pair of off-white robes that Harry’s never seen her wearing before. “You two, will take the cloak.” She gestures to the small-beaded bag on the chaise lounge. Malfoy watches as Harry rummages through it to pull out the silvery Invisibility Cloak.  
  
Hermione’s bushy curls quickly melt into a sleek bob, and she examines herself in the mirror hanging behind a drawer.  
  
“An Invisibility Cloak,” Malfoy says, reaching for Harry’s. Harry gives it to him to examine.  
  
Malfoy holds it with one hand and traces a finger along the cloak with his other hand. He examines the cloak like a dealer, eyeing the cloak carefully and testing its thickness between forefinger and thumb.  
  
“Satisfied?” Harry asks, slightly amused.  
  
Malfoy sniffs. He gives the cloak back. “Quite.”  
  
Hermione -- now perfectly resembling Mafalda Hopkirk, complete with a mousey expression and pinched eyebrows -- mutters something to herself, then slings her beaded-bag over her shoulder. “Ready?” She starts the Floo and steps inside. Harry and Malfoy nod.  
  
They arrive in Mafalda Hopkirk’s office several seconds later, Hermione first, followed by Malfoy, then Harry.  
  
As soon as Harry steps onto the polished marble floor to see the white walls of Hopkirk’s office, decorated with a poster from Wizarding Brazil and various calendars, Hermione takes down the Disillusionment charm she’d constructed around the fireplace. She quickly gestures for Malfoy and Harry to get under the cloak.  
  
“It’s in here,” Hermione mutters, rummaging through a drawer.  
  
“But we can’t take it,” Malfoy says, “Or make a copy of it. Shacklebolt put in new measures to stop that.”  
  
Hermione holds up a fountain pen and grins. “Lucky for us, we don’t need to do either of those.”  
  
Harry grabs the cloak and proffers it to Malfoy. Malfoy heads over to stand and peer over Hermione’s shoulder before reluctantly taking the cloak.  
  
“Go on,” Hermione gestures to them again.  
  
Wearing the Cloak of Invisibility worked significantly better when they were First Years, fifteen years old, and able to split the cloak between the three of them with room to spare. But there’s still enough room for the two of them -- Harry and Malfoy -- now. Or at least, that’s what Harry thinks.  
  
“Budge up a bit,” Hermione frowns over the paper she’s reading, “I can see your trainers.”  
  
Malfoy reaches out and grabs Harry’s wrist and tugs him close. All too soon, Harry is suddenly introduced to the fragrant scent of Malfoy’s cologne: something sharp, and subtle. Mouth-watering.  
  
“Er,” Harry says, trying to think of a way to put more distance between himself and the warmth of Malfoy’s body. He doesn’t glance sideways to look at the silky material of Malfoy’s gray robes and he doesn’t think about how Hermione had called Malfoy ‘Draco’ so easily.  
  
“What’s this?” Malfoy leans in. His fingers are still warm around Harry’s wrist.  
  
“Shorthand,” Hermione explains.  
  
To Harry it just looks like senseless loops and scribbles, but he trusts Hermione. Malfoy lets go of Harry.  
  
“Rowle, Rookwood, Lestrange. All here. Dolohov, Travers, Mulciber Junior. Those are the only ones left. Or, on the run, at least. All the rest are dead, or in Azkaban.”  
  
“Dolohov’s dead,” Harry says quickly, anticipating Malfoy’s interjection.  
  
“You know,” Hermione says thoughtfully, “It doesn’t have to be a Death Eater, or someone associated with Voldemort.”  
  
“But it would make sense,” Harry says, “Someone angry with the fact that there’re still blood-traitors? Still Purebloods living at Hogwarts?”  
  
“It would make sense,” nods Malfoy, “Seeing that I’m still alive.”  
  
Hermione tugs Hopkirk’s inky black hair. “Revenge can always be extreme. Maybe, maybe someone could be out there to take revenge against the Purebloods.”  
  
“Who?” Harry frowns.  
  
“The prime target would be me,” Malfoy says dryly, “And I’m still alive.”  
  
“I don’t know,” Hermione says patiently. “It’s a theory.”  
  
“Hang on,” Harry peers over Hermione’s shoulder. “You said Dolohov’s dead.”  
  
Malfoy huffs. “Multiple times.”  
  
“But -- they never found his body.”  
  
“So? Greyback probably ate it, the uncouth brute.” Malfoy sneers, and his voice suddenly turns ugly.  
  
Harry had almost forgotten what that sneer looked like. He reaches out unthinkingly and touches Malfoy’s arm.  
  
To Hermione, Harry asks, “You know what this means?”  
  
“The records are inaccurate,” Hermione catches on.  
  
“Who knows what else is wrong on this report,” Harry says fiercely.  
  
A voice from outside the office interrupts. Hermione’s eyes widen for a second before she motions for Harry and Malfoy to stay still. Malfoy scoots closer and Harry grabs the cloak to keep it from flying just as the door to the office opens.  
  
None other than Minister of Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt steps in. “Ms. Hopkirk,” he rumbles.    
  
If Harry has learned one thing from all of his years in the Wizarding World, it’s that he should trust his instincts. That’s why, with no other method of communication left, he reaches out and takes Malfoy’s arm warningly.  
  
“Minister,” Hermione says smoothly, sweeping her papers across Hopkirk’s desk. “How can I help you?”  
  
“I believe you took four days of leave,” Shacklebolt says, his gaze unwavering. His dark purple robes seem to fill the room with his presence.  
  
“I did, but I received an owl this morning from -- ”  
  
Shacklebolt presses three fingers against his temple in a gesture so weary that even Harry feels a stab of guilt. “Ms. Granger,” he says, tired, “I appreciate your efforts -- ”  
  
“Minister,” Hermione says, without fear. She straightens. “We’re trying to help -- ”  
  
Harry ducks out from the Cloak, leaving Malfoy hidden underneath. “You must know,” Harry says hotly, “About the illness at Hogwarts -- we’re -- ”  
  
Shacklebolt holds up a hand. “Where is Mr. Malfoy?”  
  
“I -- what?”  
  
Malfoy tears off the cloak.  
  
Shacklebolt’s nostrils flare. “I think it’s best if we take this to my office,” he says.  
  
Shacklebolt takes them to his office. On the way there, he explains: “We established a detection charm in the offices of all the highest officials towards the end of the summer. It’ll tell us anytime someone unauthorized arrives at the Ministry.”  
  
Malfoy mutters something about increased security under his breath.  
  
Thankfully, the hols have emptied most of the Ministry; they only pass two witches and a wizard en route to Shacklebolt’s office.  
  
Honestly, the confrontation ends up pretty similar to other encounters Harry has had with authority in the last few years -- that is to say, not very well. It goes something like this:  
  
“The case is on hold for a reason, Ms. Granger. There are more important things to consider at the moment -- ”  
  
“They’re criminals, and possibly involved in the issue of students falling ill at Hogwarts -- ”  
  
“Which I will remind you, is currently being investigated by Aurors -- ”  
  
“If we’re being investigated, then why aren’t you finding answers?” Harry interrupts.  
  
“I have a country to rebuild,” Shacklebolt says thunderously, “I have empty mouths to feed, I have people without homes, without families, without memories.” He fixes each one of them with a solid look. “There are convicts, and yes, we need them to pay for their war crimes, but I need to help our people first.”  
  
“What good is helping your people if there is still fear,” Malfoy says quietly. His eyes are flinty gray.    
  
“Mister Malfoy,” Shacklebolt says dangerously, enunciating every syllable. He sweeps his gaze across the room. Then, “I understand your concern, and I know that the public needs reassurance. But I’ve lived life after a war -- after the first war.” He looks at each of them for a long moment. “I trust that you will return back to Hogwarts and let our Aurors finish their jobs. Besides, there is no concrete evidence of these convicts being directly related to the sudden illnesses of Mr. Weasley, Mr. Slughorn, and the others.”  
  
Properly chastised, they head back to Hopkirk’s office to Floo back.  
  
“Well,” Hermione says, watching the green flames in Hopkirk’s fireplace dance. “It was worth a try.”  
  
Harry takes a pinch of Floo Powder. “We still have the list,” he says.  
  
“We can look over it when we get back,” Malfoy agrees, before nudging Harry towards the fire. “Let’s get out of here for now.”  
  
“Well, you’re back early,” Andromeda says, when Harry and Malfoy enter the kitchen to 12 Grimmauld Place a few minutes later. Hermione has wisely chosen to wait in her room until the Polyjuice Potion wears off. “I’d ask where you’ve been, but I have an appointment in,” she casts a quick _Tempus_ , “three minutes. Take care of Teddy, will you?”  
  
Harry barely nods before Andromeda’s out the door, a loud crack signalling her Apparition.  
  
“Where does she work?” Malfoy asks, as they trudge up the stairs to Teddy’s nursery.  
  
“Magical caregiver. Goes to homes and helps families rebuild. Mostly takes care of victims of Unforgivables.” Harry grimaces.  
  
They reach the third floor and head to the nursery. Inside, a herd of about five miniature sheep, no larger than the length of Harry’s thumb, prance over Teddy’s crib. The baby babbles nonsensically, reaching up to grab the sheep with his chubby fists, who float just out of his reach.  
  
Andromeda has charmed the sheep to jump and play with each other; Harry watches for a moment, transfixed, until Malfoy steps forward and scoops Teddy out of the crib.  
  
Malfoy wrinkles his nose. “You’ve gotten fat,” he tells Teddy.  
  
“He’s a baby,” Harry protests.  
  
Malfoy sniffs and Teddy grabs a fistful of Malfoy’s hair, squealing with delight. On their way back downstairs, Harry ducks his head into the first floor corridor, to yell and tell Hermione Andromeda’s gone to work.  
  
Back in the kitchen, Harry opens the cabinet to take out the baby formula. Malfoy holds Teddy on his knee. “Babies are really such strange creatures,” Malfoy says, smoothing a hand over Teddy’s bright purple hair.  
  
Harry hums as he prepares the formula. After feeding Teddy, Harry decides to start dinner as well.  
  
Harry’s peeling potatoes while Malfoy plays with Teddy when Hermione reappears, looking like her usual self.  
  
“So,” Hermione says, coming into the kitchen. Her hair has been piled into a bun on her head. “I was thinking.”  
  
“Dangerous, Granger.”  
  
Harry rolls his eyes. “What were you going to say, Hermione?”  
  
She takes a seat next to Malfoy and watches Teddy grab at Malfoy’s robes. “There’s no way that anyone could get into either the Ministry of Magic, or Hogwarts at this point. The security has been tripled, and there’s no way anyone would be stupid enough to come back.” She fixes both of them with a significant look. “And so, I think the curse is based at Hogwarts.”  
  
“If there even is a curse,” Malfoy protests.  
  
“Wait,” Harry says, frowning. He puts down the potato peeler. “That would make sense. Ron was there since the beginning of summer, to help with repairs.”  
  
“As was Neville, and Slughorn.” Malfoy agrees. “But we were there as well.”  
  
“That’s why I was thinking it had to be a curse,” Hermione insists. “If someone were at Hogwarts, they’d be able to choose their victims. If our suspect is a Death Eater, then the prime victims would be, well,” she gestures towards the two of them, and then herself. “But there’s no way anyone can come to Hogwarts.”  
  
“So you’re saying someone left a spell.” Malfoy pushes away Teddy’s fist when he tries to gnaw on Malfoy’s robes.  
  
“A curse, with parameters,” Harry suggests. “In this case, if you’re a Pureblood, you get cursed.”  
  
“Alright. Fine. So say that the hypothetical suspect is someone who wants to eradicate Purebloods. This suspect leaves a curse of some sort behind, meant to hurt only Purebloods.” Malfoy scoops Teddy up and holds him. “Your suggestion has one enormous flaw.”  
  
Harry frowns. “What is it?”  
  
“You,” Hermione guesses, looking Malfoy. “You’re the most Pureblooded Wizard at Hogwarts.”  
  
Malfoy nods curtly. “If there were really someone trying to bring down Purebloods, I’d be the first target.”  
  
Harry Vanishes the potato peels with a flick of his wand, and sends the peeled potatoes into a pot of boiling water. “But,” Harry continues neutrally. “You have a Dark Mark.”  
  
Malfoy’s face remains carefully blank. “So?”  
  
“So, if the curse-caster is a Death Eater, that would make sense.”  
  
Hermione muses, “A Death Eater who leaves a curse behind at Hogwarts, causing all Purebloods -- or blood-traitors -- who enter the castle to fall ill, except for those with Dark Marks.”  
  
Malfoy frowns, and if Teddy weren’t in his lap, Harry guesses Malfoy would’ve crossed his arms. “That all makes sense, but it’s quite a few assumptions to make.”  
  
“Assumptions are all we have,” Harry says.  
  
“Not quite.” Hermione places several pieces of parchment onto the desk. Harry throws a pinch of salt into the boiling water before joining the other two at the table. Malfoy hands him Teddy as soon as Harry sits down.  
  
Harry’s distracted for a moment by the baby, who is soft and smells like formula and sleep: Harry pets his hair before gently hoisting him up and touching his small nose, which closely a button. Or a mushroom. A button mushroom. Harry looks up and accidentally catches Malfoy’s eyes, then looks away quickly and awkwardly.  
  
“Here are all the references we have,” Hermione says, organizing the parchments. She remains oblivious to the interaction behind her. “A newspaper clipping from Astoria Greengrass. Bellatrix Lestrange, Rabastan Lestrange, Augustus Rookwood, Antonin Dolohov -- deceased.” She pushes the clipping aside. “From the latest withdrawals in Lucius Malfoy’s bank account with Weissmattzer. Rookwood, Rowle, Rabastan Lestrange.” She pushes that aside. “And finally, from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Rowle, Rookwood, Rabastan Lestrange, Dolohov -- deceased, according to Draco, but whose body has yet to be recovered -- Travers, Mulciber Junior. All on the run.”  
  
“Rookwood and Lestrange,” Malfoy says. “Those are the names common to all three lists.”  
  
“Both of them are listed here -- current whereabouts: presumed to be in Eastern Europe. Belarus.”  
  
“Pull up a map,” Malfoy says abruptly, standing.  
  
“What -- ”  
  
“A map,” he says, exiting the kitchen. Hermione looks at Harry inquisitively, but he shrugs. They follow Malfoy out of the kitchen, with Teddy gnawing gummily on Harry’s shoulder.  
  
They follow Malfoy upstairs, to an empty guest bedroom on the fourth floor. “Here,” Malfoy pulls out an atlas from the shelf. He slams the thick tome onto a nearby table and flips it open, seemingly at random.  
  
“You could’ve Accioed it,” Hermione says lightly.  
  
“And waste the dramatic potential of storming out of a room?” Harry asks dryly. Malfoy shoots him a withering look and Harry grins in response. Teddy drools and grabs Harry’s ear. Hermione pulls a face at Teddy and he gurgles happily.  
  
“ _Anyway_ ,” Malfoy says, “As I was saying -- ”  
  
“Really, you weren’t saying anything,” Hermione says.  
  
“You just sort of left,” Harry agrees. “Dramatically.”  
  
Malfoy casts his eyes towards the ceiling.  
  
“The map?” Hermione prompts.  
  
“As I was saying,” Malfoy says, sending a withering look at Harry, “Belarus.” He jabs a finger at the map before them. Harry and Hermione lean in.  
  
“Belarus is right next to Lithuania,” Malfoy explains. “And I remember going to a safehouse, in Lithuania.”  
  
“So you know where it is,” Hermione says eagerly, leaning in, “And you’ve been there before.”  
  
“It’s the only safehouse in Eastern Europe that I’m aware of,” Malfoy agrees.  
  
“Hang on,” Harry says, “You don’t mean to say that… we’re going there, are you?”  
  
“Not now,” Malfoy says thoughtfully, turning his wand over in his hands. “There’re some tests we should run first, at Hogwarts.”  
  
“To test for remnants of curses,” Hermione agrees. “We’ll have to tell McGonagall,” she says, more to herself than anything. She begins mutter and heads out of the room.  
  
Harry starts feeling like they finally have the beginnings of a plan. He settles Teddy on his hip. “Let me see that map one more time,” he says to Malfoy.  
  
They head back to the kitchen, where the potatoes have finished boiling. Harry hands Teddy off to Malfoy.  
  
Malfoy sets the map on the table. Harry’s wand buzzes with the finishing of his alarm. Malfoy watches Harry turn off the heat, and drain the potatoes. Harry looks down at the potatoes for a moment, then pulls out a cutting board to cube the potato. Then, he looks down at the potatoes again.  
  
“Here,” Malfoy says, taking pity on Harry. They switch positions and Malfoy hands Teddy back to Harry. Teddy puffs and burps. Harry pats him on the back firmly.  
  
From the seemingly endless supply in the kitchen cabinet -- which is a room in and of itself, containing row upon row of sausage links, thick cuts of beef and lamb; fresh herbs growing underneath floating orbs of greenish-yellow light, heads of lettuce, spinach, artichokes; glass jars containing grains and flours of all colors and textures; among many other ingredients Harry can’t even name -- Malfoy retrieves French butter, leeks, some floury starch, and cream, all while narrating:  
  
“Potions and cooking are quite similar, really. It’s a matter of intuition. And elegance.”  
  
At this, Harry rolls his eyes and snorts. He shakes his head at Teddy, who blinks sympathetically. Malfoy pretends he doesn’t see. “It’s a kind of magic that’s less about following rules, and more about how the magic interacts with itself. How the ingredients work with each other.”  
  
“What are we making?” Harry asks, watching as Malfoy pulls out a small black pouch from within his robes. He waves his hands and the ingredients settle on the wooden table, on top of the map of Europe.  
  
“ _Poche_ soup.”  
  
From within the black pouch, Malfoy pulls out a small mortar and pestle, along with various ingredients that wouldn’t look out of place in Snape’s classroom.  
  
“From the apothecary?” Harry guesses, leaning against the table. He shifts Teddy to his other hip. “In Colmar?”  
  
“Yeah,” Malfoy says. He grinds an orange-colored root.  
  
“Turmeric.” Harry’s lips quirk.  
  
A smile ghosts Malfoy’s face.  
  
In a large pot, Malfoy melts butter and cooks the leeks. At Malfoy’s suggestion, Harry seasons them and stirs with his wand.  
  
“ _Poche_ ,” Harry says. “That’s French.”  
  
“For pocket.” Malfoy hums and crushes black seeds along with the turmeric. “The fermented seeds of a Tibetan Turnip, along with turmeric powder, when ground and added to water to form a paste, clumps together. Forms a pocket of flavor that only dissolves on contact with human saliva.”  
  
“You’re making leek soup,” Harry grins. “Potato and leek soup.”  
  
“Well,” Malfoy says, “I suppose.”  
  
Hermione reemerges just as Malfoy pours concentrated knotgrass extract into their soup, which is now viscous and smells delicious. “Oh,” she says, with a pleased look, “You’ve made dinner.”  
  
Andromeda comes back just as they finish setting the table. They all sit down and enjoy the finished soup, which glimmers with the same sheen as any finished potion does. It tastes like a rich leek and potato soup, but with a tangy undercurrent. The pockets of flavor are spicy, like a Pepper Imp, and bright like an Exploding Whizz Popper.  
  
“This looks delicious, thank you.” Andromeda tucks in quickly. Upstairs, Teddy sleeps. The map has been put away.  
  
They eat quickly, discussing Andromeda’s work, and recent developments at the Ministry. Afterwards, when the dishes have been done and Andromeda turns in, Hermione calls it a night as well.  
  
Harry makes some tea and he and Malfoy take it in the first-floor drawing room, in front of the fire. Quietly.  
  
And when they’ve finished that, Malfoy puts the tea away. Sits.  
  
The silence only lasts for a minute or two before Harry brings up the subject of Colmar. They’re in their winter coats and scarves before the fire dies down, on the front step of Grimmauld Place and Apparating to the safehouse soon after.  
  
Harry Apparates them this time, and Malfoy holds onto his arm as he Side-Alongs.  
  
They land at the mouth of the cave in the valley. All around them, the wind has died down, leaving only perfect snow and the black skeleton of dead trees. A few strands of moss, now completely covered in white, dangle over the entrance to the cave.  
  
Colmar sticks her head out, her eyes bright blue and smoke trailing in thin wisps from her nostrils.  
  
“Good evening,” Malfoy says, twisting his hand in an odd gesture and bending into a half-bow.  
  
Colmar huffs.  
  
Her head now reaches above theirs; her shoulders have become broad, and her legs are more of pillars than limbs. Each claw is polished as marble, and white as ivory. The scales covering her hide are the same color as the polished stone he and Malfoy found in the Forbidden Forest, those months ago. But they’re as strong and reinforced as steel. Every edge is serrated. On her shoulders and joints, the slats of skin underneath the scales are reinforced.  
  
The sky is cold, but clear, so Harry retrieves their broomsticks from the back of the cave, and they fly out towards the ocean.  
  
The winds are present here, but it is a clear day, and they will grow no stronger.  
  
They swoop through the valley, cloaks billowing as they head towards the sea. Colmar, with her wings spread -- their span now unbelievably wide -- soars towards the ocean.  
  
Underneath them, the sea is foamy and rocky. They leave the shore behind and follow as Colmar swoops up, towards the clouds.  
  
The sky is dark blue and dense; has the quality of an oil painting. Harry hears Malfoy casts a water-repelling charm on the both of them, and quickly casts a warming charm in kind.  
  
They break through the clouds, and Colmar roars in delight, shooting out a jet of scarlet fire.  
  
From behind Harry, Malfoy whoops in delight. Harry laughs with sheer joy.  
  
They glide for a bit, and slow as the shore disappears behind them. Looking forward, there’s nothing, save for the enormous expanse of sky and sea. Twilight surrounds them, gray and featureless.  
  
They hang there, caught in the horizon, for a moment that feels both like a heartbeat and an eternity. Beneath them, clouds stretch out, obscuring the foaming waves below. They hang like spirits, caught between two worlds. Even in the face of death, Harry has never felt so small.  
  
After some time, they descend back through the clouds. Colmar skims over the water, close enough that she looks like a reflection of the ocean. Her neck, long and serpentine, extends over the water. Harry thinks of Malfoy’s story. He thinks of ancient magic, and ancient beasts. He wonders how long the dragons have lived here, and how Colmar really is a thing of the earth, of the ocean, and of magic. Her scales match the water perfectly, and a low, content hum emanates from her chest. Harry tries to imagine living like that, back then: without cities or castles or homes, just in the woods, living in tune with the earth and the magic in the plants and air.  
  
When they return to the cave, it’s kind of stupid, since they’re in a cave, and they could start a fire. But cots are significantly more comfortable than stone, so Harry pulls out the tent and they pitch it up right there, in the middle of the cave. Lucky for them, the cave is enormous -- perhaps half the size and height of the Great Hall -- so they only receive an odd look from Colmar before settling down.  
  
Inside the tent, Malfoy Conjures several warm floating orbs of light; Harry casts more than several warming charms, and they settle into the common space in the middle of the spacious tent. Malfoy snags the most comfortable armchair and Harry sprawls over the couch. They Accio a fresh loaf of bread and two links of sausage from the cabinet in the kitchenette, which Harry had linked to the cabinet in Grimmauld Place with the help of Hermione.  
  
They eat quickly and warm themselves up.  
  
“Dragon’s fire,” Harry says, considering. He chews a bit of sausage. “Is it magical fire? LIke the fire of an _Incendio_ ?”  
  
Malfoy leans back and Accios two bottles of butterbeer.  
  
“Thanks,” Harry says, catching one.  
  
Malfoy pops open his bottle and sticks his finger in his mouth to catch the first droplets of amber liquid. “When we use magic, we use spells. That language that we use is the way we harness magic. It’s the way we channel it.”  
  
“Except for nonverbal spells.”  
  
“Well, I don’t know about you, but even when casting nonverbals, I sometimes still gotta think about the spell. If I wanted to a light, I would have to think _Lumos_ even if I didn’t have to say it. Some witches and wizards don’t have to, but for the most part, casting spells requires intention. Even if you say the spell, or speak the language, nothing will happen.”  
  
“And so ancient magic,” Harry says, cracking open his beer as well, “Witches and wizards back then -- they didn’t use spells.”  
  
“From what I understand, yes. When they harnessed magic, a language didn’t _exist_ . That’s why so few of them could use it, at the time. But I mean, it’s the same magic we use today, except, now we have a language to control it. It’s all one magic -- I guess, there’s just… different ways of accessing.” Malfoy taps his chin. “Does that make sense?”  
  
“Sort of.” Harry shrugs.  
  
“Well, sorcerers and enchantresses back then had enough control over magic, they had enough will and intention that they didn’t _need_ a language. They were so… so in tune with the magic, I suppose. It wasn’t something that you could learn or teach. It just -- was.”  
  
“Like an intuition,” Harry says.  
  
“Yeah,” Malfoy nods. “Yeah. I mean, all living things have a certain amount of magic attached to them. All beings of the earth have some magic, it’s just that obviously people and creatures that harness magic more, leave more of an impact.”  
  
“How do you mean?”  
  
Malfoy tears off a piece of bread. “Wandmaking, for example. Wands are of course another way to make it easier for magicians to use magic. But their cores are always from magical creatures: dragons, unicorns, phoenixes, to name a few. All beings die, but they leave a sort of… residue?”  
  
“Veela hair,” Harry thinks aloud, “Kneazle whiskers, Kelpie manes.”  
  
“All infused with magic,” Malfoy agrees. “The fang of a basilisk even can be used for a wand core. It doesn’t necessarily have to be a heart, but they tend to contain the most magical traces. And dragons happen to have especially powerful, magical hearts. That’s why they’re used in wands.”  
  
“Sometimes,” Harry begins slowly, “It’s like they know things we can’t.”  
  
“What, dragons?”  
  
Harry nods.  
  
“Premonition. Intuition. Call it what you will.” Malfoy shrugs.  
  
“And people?” Harry asks, curious.  
  
Malfoy looks at Harry. In these past few months, Harry realizes, Malfoy’s face has become so familiar.  
  
“You’ve been to Godric’s Hollow, haven’t you?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Well, I don’t know if you saw, but sometimes, when you leave flowers on graves, they’ll stay fresh for longer than usual. That is, longer than how long a flower would normally last without sustenance.”  
  
“You’re saying… that the magic -- the residue -- sustains them?”  
  
Malfoy hesitates. “It’s… complicated, to say the least. I remember, visiting a particularly picky uncle’s grave. My mother would always have someone clean the grave ever so often, otherwise the grounds would be susceptible to flooding, and weeds.”  
  
“So it’s a matter of personality?”  
  
“It can be. Magic has a mind of its own. When it lives in a person, it’s like choosing a wand, to a certain extent. The magic takes on that person.”  
  
“Like in your story, the dragon. Protecting Britain.” Harry frowns. “It wasn’t really a story, was it? It was real?”  
  
“Was Merlin a story? Or Morgan le Fay?” Malfoy polishes off the last of his sausage and licks his fingers. His fingers are long and delicate and pale, much like the rest of him. “Maybe it was true. Or maybe it’s just a way to explain the way things are. Either way, the land has its own magic. And people and beings have their own magic, which lives on, even after they pass away.”  
  
“And wands,” Harry asks, “They live on, after their owners die.”  
  
“I suppose.” Malfoy scrunches his nose. “I’m not entirely sure.”  
  
“It’s like, when you have a wand -- you hold something that’s shaped, by people who came before you. They’ve all left their legacy on that wand. Like you said -- the magic stays. So when you touch it.... ” Harry trails off, thinking of the Elder Wand.  
  
“Yeah,” Malfoy says. He looks contemplative.  
  
Harry takes a swing from his butterbeer before continuing. “Stories are like that too.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“When you tell stories like this, and pass them on. No one tells the same story the exact same way, do they? Listening to your story is really like -- like listening to parts of your story. Your parts, your grandfather’s parts, all of them together.”  
  
“And his grandfather, and his grandfather before him,” Malfoy agrees.  
  
Harry exhales a long breath. He finishes the last of his butterbeer.  
  
Malfoy Conjures another orb of light, this time, scarlet red. He holds it in his hand, before letting it drift into the air. He reaches out and tucks his feet in, legs folded and knees close to his chest. He looks soft. Harry wants to touch him so badly.  
  
Instead, he waves his wand and brings two more bottles of butterbeer over. The glass is frosted, and cool.  
  
“When I was in the Forbidden Forest,” Harry says slowly, “That last night of the battle, I thought I was going to die. I had the stone, and I turned it over in my hand.” Harry looks down at his hands. Empty. “I turned it over, and I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t scared even though I thought I knew I was going to die. Because I knew it was for a purpose. That I was doing good.” Harry leans back, looking at his knees. “Before that, it was like -- I didn’t really know… I mean I didn’t know what I was doing. I was just trying to help people. Because I thought that was what I was meant to do.”  
  
“And now it’s over,” Malfoy guesses, “And you don’t know what to do.”  
  
“Er -- less, now. I know that I want to be happy. I wasn’t sure how I could be, at first.” Harry pauses. “But I think I can be.” Harry thinks of flying with Ginny on the Quidditch field, getting burritos with the Weasleys at the witching hour, being here with Malfoy and Colmar.  
  
“At least you weren’t afraid,” Malfoy says bitterly. He hugs his legs. Harry thinks that Malfoy’s a maudlin drunk. The both of them are. “I was a coward. I was convinced I was going to leave, and go to France. It’d be safe there. And I was -- scared.” Malfoy stares unseeing at the floor. “I was a fucking coward.”  
  
“But you didn’t.” Harry sets down his butterbeer. “You didn’t leave. And now you’re here.”  
  
Malfoy laughs hollowly. “Yeah, I sure am.” He shakes his head and looks up at Harry. Harry smiles. Malfoy shakes his head once more and says, “I sure am.”  
  
There’s too much butterbeer in their systems, and it’s nice and warm in the tent, so neither of them moves to head back to the Black house. Harry crawls into his cot and tosses his glasses aside. A few minutes later, there’s a quiet rustle as Malfoy slips in beside him.  
  
When Harry makes an inquisitive noise, Malfoy grunts and nudges him over. “It’s cold,” Malfoy says.  
  
There’s a slow song warbling on the radio, something by an old Muggle band. Harry thinks -- or rather, he _knows_ \-- that he’ll never be able to hear the song again without thinking of this: the snow piling on outside, the smell of pine and the unreal size of the valley and ocean and mountains around them; the feeling of Malfoy’s weight pressed up against him, the soft subtle scent of his cologne; and the overwhelming feeling of contentment.  
  
That’s the first night.  
  
They Apparate back to 12 Grimmauld Place the next morning, knocking sheepishly as they stand on the step. It’s no more than ten in the morning, so some Muggles bustle by with their Saturday grocery shopping.  
  
“Hi,” Harry says, awkwardly, at the tiny charm inscribed in the door underneath the peephole. A bronze trinket in the shape of the black family crest that he had watched Andromeda cast an amplifying charm on: Harry knows that it carries his voice inside the house. “It’s us. I mean, me -- Harry and Malfoy.”  
  
The sound of footsteps announces Andromeda’s movement behind the door.  
  
“Good morning,” she says, opening the door. “What brings you back,” she asks dryly.  
  
“Er… ”  
  
Andromeda bursts out laughing and swings the door open. “Get in here, before you freeze to death.”  
  
Obediently, they shuffle in, dragging in the wind and snowflakes. Andromeda sits them down at the dining room table, where a centerpiece is fitted with what looks like silver swans, arching their necks and preening delicately. Hermione’s at the table, holding Teddy back from grabbing the poor figurines, which float across the centerpiece, away from Teddy’s dangerous grasp.  
  
“So,” Andromeda says.  
  
“Hi Harry. Hi Draco.” Hermione looks up. “Say hi, Teddy.” Teddy gurgles and Hermione wipes drool from the corner of his mouth.  
  
Kreacher walks in then, carrying a tray of breakfast items, which he sets on the table. He bows lowly. “Masters Potter and Malfoy.”  
  
“Thank you, Kreacher,” Hermione says, as the wrinkled elf leaves the room.  
  
“So,” Malfoy says, taking a seat and helping himself to breakfast. Harry sighs and follows suit.  
  
“So we’re raising a dragon,” Harry says.  
  
Thirty minutes later, they’ve explained the entirety of the situation to Andromeda, including but not limited to Colmar, the illnesses at Hogwarts, and their plan to secure Hogwarts and possibly venture to Lithuania.  
  
“That… ” Andromeda says slowly when they finish. “That sounds like quite the Eighth Year.”  
  
Hermione grimaces. “So that’s why we went to the Ministry yesterday.”  
  
“I see.” Andromeda’s chin dips to her chest.  
  
Harry and Malfoy have finished their breakfast, and sip at their juice.  
  
“As the adult in this situation, I feel an obligation to tell you that you really shouldn’t do this.” Andromeda purses her lips. “But I’m sure that’s what everyone else has been telling you. And I know you all are more than capable of taking care of yourselves.”  
  
“And,” Harry adds. “It’s hardly the worst thing we’ve done.”  
  
Andromeda doesn’t put her head in her hands, but it looks like she wants to.  
  
Regardless, she manages a weak smile. “Well then. My resources are yours.”  
  
The second night is their last night. It’s the Sunday before school resumes again, and a quiet one at that.  
  
Kreacher reclaims the kitchen and makes them a delicious meal of fried rice and garlic shrimp. They eat and chat; Harry and Malfoy alternatively feed Teddy his baby food.  
  
Afterwards, Hermione engages Andromeda in an in-depth conversation about her time abroad in Wizarding Japan. It’s interesting, so Harry and Malfoy stick around, loitering in the parlor, playing with Teddy while listening in on discussions about Japanese tea ceremonies and the spirits living in zen gardens. Andromeda describes _shoji_ , the Japanese paper screens behind which wizards and witches Apparate.  
  
But when they begin discussing the Minister of Magic and international Wizarding relations, Harry and Malfoy make their excuses.  
  
When they Apparate to the cave by the safehouse, Colmar’s gone hunting. In her absence, they set up the tent anyway.  
  
The bottle of firewhiskey in the kitchen cabinet that refills itself is an absolute godsend. The two of them stand there, in the kitchen of the expanded tent, a golden orb of yellow light floating above them. Malfoy passes the bottle to Harry and Harry passes it back, the glass warming underneath their grip. Harry’s cast a thin warming charm, just the way he likes it: so that the charm works its magic, but you can still feel a bite from the chill; and that’s how you appreciate the magic, that’s what makes the charm all the better.  
  
“It’s really,” Malfoy hiccups, interrupting himself, “Embarrassing, you know.”  
  
Harry frowns, leaning back against the kitchen table. “Er -- what?”  
  
“The fact that you’re a Gryffindor and I can drink you under the table.” Malfoy does that thing where he suppresses a burp, and so it sounds like a hiccup -- again. “Embarrassing, I’d say.”  
  
“You don’t drink me under the table.” Harry’s frown deepens. “If anything, you’re as pissed as me. You’re just better at,” Harry waves his hand in an all-encompassing gesture. “Y’know.”  
  
“Hm. Articulating myself?” Malfoy waves dramatically, then lets his hand drop; he follows the motion and swoops into a bow.  
  
“Yeah, alright, you can talk,” Harry slurs. “But really, you’re as pissed as me. I’ll bet you can’t even brew a Hiccuping Solution.”  
  
Malfoy’s eyes narrow.  
  
Which is how they find themselves turning their kitchenette into a laboratory for Potions work. Malfoy’s pulling Pungous Onions and ginger root along with vials and a miniature pewter cauldron from within his black pouch -- which Harry learns is quite similar to his own moleskin pouch that Hagrid had gotten him for his birthday a year or two ago.  
  
Malfoy mutters to himself as he smashes the ginger root rather viciously. “Can’t believe you think I can’t make a Hiccuping Solution -- could make one if I was blind, for Merlin’s sake… ”  
  
“Being blind is not the same as being drunk,” Harry feels the need to point out.  
  
Malfoy seems quite adept at brewing the potion -- Harry has no doubt that he’ll be able to successfully, but it’s just so easy to rile him up, and besides: Harry likes watching him brew and cook.  
  
When first half of the potion is finished, Malfoy looks up triumphantly. “We just have to wait three minutes, and then I’ll be almost done,” he says smugly.  
  
“Yeah,” Harry says, “But what if I tipped over your cauldron? Or dropped some lacewing into it?”  
  
Malfoy’s face morphs into an expression of horror. “You wouldn’t!” he says indignantly. When Harry can’t stop laughing, Malfoy says, “You _would_ , wouldn't you?”  
  
Malfoy moves to shove Harry but Harry rolls with the punch and they end up scrabbling at each other playfully, Harry still working through his fit of laughter.  
  
“Oh, you brute,” complains Malfoy when Harry grins and tousles Malfoy’s perfect hair, shouldering him good-naturedly.  
  
“A caveman,” Harry agrees, putting on a posh accent, “Unnecessarily cruel and barbarous.”  
  
“I don’t talk like that,” Malfoy scowls, and then they’re tussling again, generally making drunken fools of themselves until Malfoy yanks at Harry’s leg, right above his ankle -- and it’s a dirty move that sends both of them onto the floor in a heaping pile of limbs and wrinkled robes.  
  
That’s when Harry’s legs entangle with Malfoy’s, warm and snug. Harry’s face suddenly is very close to Malfoy’s, close enough that Harry can see the nearly invisible smattering of freckles across Malfoy’s pale cheeks. Their chests fit together. Each breath presses Malfoy’s ribcage against Harry’s sternum.  
  
This is _Draco Malfoy_ , Harry has to remind himself. _Draco sodding Malfoy._  
  
A few seconds too late, Harry jerks back. “That’s not -- ” he begins. He tries scooting back but his trainer catches Malfoy’s robes and he nearly falls; Malfoy’s reflexes -- damn them, again -- kick in as he reaches out to grab Harry and stop him from flailing backwards.  
  
Malfoy’s hands fist in Harry’s shirt and their legs are hopelessly entwined. The scent of Malfoy’s cologne is _intoxicating_ this close. And Harry’s absolutely plastered because he can’t stop looking at Malfoy’s face, looking at Malfoy’s mouth: Harry catches himself and makes a choked noise.  
  
There’s buzzing in his head, probably the rush of his blood, pumping furiously, buzzing in his chest, actually drowning him -- there’s so much white noise, he can’t think, can’t breathe as Malfoy shifts against him, his pink lips slightly parted. And then Harry makes that same noise again, releases the rest of that choked sound. Malfoy exhales lightly; Harry can feel his warm breath on the skin of his neck.  
  
This is when it’s no longer funny: it’s fucking terrifying.  
  
This is also when a loud pop from the pewter cauldron signals that the potion has been brewing for more than three minutes.  
  
They both scramble backwards. Harry stands too quickly, turning away, completely mortified.  
  
Harry coughs into his sleeve. There’s some scraping noises as Malfoy tends to his potion. Overhead, the orb of light floats innocently.  
  
“I don’t -- ” Malfoy begins, voice slightly hoarse. He stops.  
  
Harry glances around the kitchen, almost desperately. “So. You won.”  
  
Malfoy turns around. “What do you mean?”  
  
“I mean, you won the bet.” Harry scratches the back of his neck since he doesn’t know what else to do with his hands; he hopes that his face isn’t as red as it feels. “You would’ve brewed the potion if I hadn’t distracted you.”  
  
Malfoy’s cheeks turn pink. “I’m not sure that qualifies.” He turns back to the potion. Sniffs it. His nose wrinkles. “Overdone,” he grimaces. “We should neutralize it with some Flobberworm mucus.”  
  
Harry takes a step forward, then reaches for the moleskin pouch the same time Malfoy does. “Sorry,” they say in unison. They both step back automatically.  
  
Malfoy clears his throat loudly. He measures out the appropriate amount of mucus with a not completely unsteady hand and pours it in. The potion fizzles and dies, turning an ugly brown color. With Malfoy watching the potion carefully, Harry’s eyes roam Malfoy’s face. There’s a stray piece of hair over Malfoy’s forehead and his cheeks are flushed. His mouth is unbelievably pale pink. Harry can’t stop looking at his lips.  
  
“Potter,” Malfoy says. “You’re staring.”  
  
“Can I -- ” Harry starts.  
  
Malfoy blinks once. Twice. “Don’t,” Malfoy begins again. He sounds uncertain.  
  
“Look,” Harry says, lurching forward. “It’s not like -- can we just -- ”  
  
“Fine,” Malfoy says, sounding breathless. “Yeah, alright.”  
  
“Yeah?” Harry leans in and then Malfoy lunges forward.  
  
His nerves and the firewhiskey mix in a hot, potent cocktail in Harry’s stomach; maybe this can account for the fact that when their mouths meet, it’s messy and artless: Malfoy’s teeth clack against Harry’s and Harry has to reach out and fist his hands in Malfoy’s robes because his own hands are trembling.  
  
“Wait,” Harry breathes, pulling back, “Like this.”  
  
Harry scoots forward and pushes Malfoy against the counter behind him. He leans forward, again, slower this time, squeezes his eyes shut.  
  
Malfoy tastes like Firewhiskey and sweet yeast. This close, Harry can already feel his gut churning with that familiar tightness, can feel his prick twitch with interest.  
  
Malfoy makes half of a small noise, something that catches in his throat. His hand skates down and rests on Harry’s right hipbone, warm and heavy. Harry reaches up and puts a hand on the back of Malfoy’s neck, because he _can_ , because he wants to feel the fine hairs there, at the nape of his head.  
  
Then Harry’s tongue slips into Malfoy’s mouth -- then Harry can’t help his choked groan, but Malfoy jerks back anyway.  
  
Harry opens his eyes. He thinks of that one time in the garden of the Burrow, when Ginny had pulled him into the sequestered corner behind the bougainvilla: she’d kissed him like this, open-mouthed and breathy -- but it didn’t feel anything like this. This is Draco, flushed and pink and warm and soft and slightly drunk, and Harry blinks rapidly to clear his eyes.  
  
“What,” he starts, but then Harry leans in to kiss him again and again and again, until their mouths are slick with kissing.  
  
Malfoy -- Draco -- his mouth is impossibly hot and slick, and absolutely brilliant. Harry angles his body away, so that the tent in his robes can’t be felt. There’s a slight tremor where their tongues meet: Harry can’t tell which one of them it’s from.  
  
“Mhm -- ” Harry sucks on Malfoy’s upper lip, slipping his tongue into the crevice of his teeth just as Malfoy huffs and pulls away.  
  
He’s blinking rapidly, looking at Harry as though they’ve never seen each other before. And his blond hair’s tousled, his mouth red and cheeks redder.  
  
“Hi,” Harry says, sheepishly. He takes a step back and discreetly, at least, he thinks it’s discreet, adjusts his robes.  
  
“Hi,” Malfoy says. He tilts his head. His expression is unreadable.  
  
Harry remembers then just how drunk they are. It must show, or something, on his face, because Malfoy takes one look at him and makes this completely not aristocratic sound -- a hiccup, sort of.  
  
“We have to get back, you know,” Malfoy says, shaking his head. He steps back. His hair glints underneath the single, solitary orb of light floating above them. Harry never wants to leave this moment; he wants to keep the taste of Firewhiskey and Malfoy on his tongue, forever and ever.  
  
“Yeah,” Harry says, already thinking of the silver memory swirling in a stone Pensieve. Maybe because this moment, now, has the quality of a dream: something untouchable, and faded, already slipping away as much as Harry tries to remember. “Yeah.”


	9. Creatures of the Continent, and Then Some

In retrospect, the best idea would’ve been to sleep off the alcohol, wake up in the tent and take some Hangover Potion before Apparating back to 12 Grimmauld Place.   
  
But at the moment, they’re both drunk and Harry’s pulse thrums under his skin -- he can’t really think about that moment, this moment, that he kissed Draco Malfoy in the kitchen of their shared tent -- so he Apparates them back. Because, yeah.  
  
In retrospect, Harry will realize that he’s lucky they ended up on the step to Grimmauld Place alive, but at the moment, Harry can’t stop thinking about Malfoy’s mouth and what’d he like to do that mouth --  
  
Snow whips around them and Malfoy steps away, doubling over. He retches all over the step.  
  
Harry pinches his nose and leans against the doorframe, unsure of whether or not he can open his eyes: his stomach feels like it just turned itself inside out and then back again.  
  
Some time later, Malfoy manages to knock on the door, and Hermione opens it, rolling her eyes. It all feels a bit like a dream.   
  
Andromeda laughs with Teddy in the kitchen; Malfoy joins them with his flushed cheeks and rumpled hair and Harry heads to bed.  
  
Sleeps.  
  
  
  
The days following that last Sunday have the quality of a dream: like Harry’s furiously trying to remember every single minute detail but they keep slipping away.   
  
Because here’s the thing: it’s awkward.   
  
It’s awkward because they were absolutely fucking smashed, and it’s actually embarrassing how much Harry thinks about that kiss, those few minutes. It’s awkward because they were fine -- good, even -- before this, and then they had to go mess it up.  
  
He heads up to bed after Apparating back with Malfoy to 12 Grimmauld Place and lies on top of his covers for a long time, still half drunk and mind reeling from the day’s events. He thinks about how Malfoy’s mouth fit so perfectly around a cold, glass ring of the mouth of a bottle of Firewhiskey; the flush of his cheeks and his messy hair; the peach-pale color of the corner of his mouth where lip meets skin. Before Harry realizes it, into his loose robes Harry’s hand creeps and he ends up clutching, fumbling, desperately, until he gasps and bites his pillow to keep from making any noise.  
  
Breakfast the next morning takes place in the kitchen, quiet and subdued. Harry finishes packing his trunk before exiting his room, his things levitating in the air behind him like a mismatched trail of breadcrumbs.   
  
Hermione, Andromeda, and Malfoy are already seated at the table, discussing the weather or school, or something like that.   
  
Andromeda and Hermione pause only for a second to greet Harry -- who, by the way, has a pounding headache and would like nothing more than to curl back asleep but has to get to Hogwarts in time for school, thanks very much -- but Malfoy’s eyes flicker up and he pauses. “Potter,” he says stiffly, quietly, cheeks slightly pink, before he jerks his gaze back down to his toast.   
  
At the breakfast table, with conversation flowing rather easily around him, Harry has to sit and not think about Malfoy, not watch him hold his fork and stab some egg and not think about how delicate his fingers are, or how --  
  
Andromeda takes them to the King’s Cross and they board the train, preparing to head back. Onboard, in a small compartment towards the back of the train, tucked out of the way, Luna and Ginny join Hermione and Harry and Malfoy.   
  
It’s not like he doesn’t want Malfoy to sit there -- if anything, it’s the opposite -- but while Ginny and them haven’t mentioned anything about him, they haven’t exactly been warm either. But Harry might be overthinking the whole thing, or they’re getting used to seeing Malfoy so often, because everyone just settles in, sharing sweets when the trolley rolls by and flipping through the _Witch Weekly_ together.  
  
Malfoy sits in the corner, closest to the window; Harry’s taken the seat next to him half because that’s the seat that everyone else reserves for him and half because he doesn’t want to see Malfoy’s expression. Hermione quietly fills Ginny and Luna in on the potentials of having a curse, and discusses possible ways she might help McGonagall detect any remnants of magic.  
  
Before long, their trip has successfully concluded without a single interaction between Harry and Malfoy.  
  
They arrive at Hogsmeade station and take carriages down to the castle, which welcomes them invitingly with its warm lights and familiar facade. The only thing is that during their carriage ride, the bumpy road jostles Harry into Malfoy’s right shoulder, and he gets a lungful of that terrible, familiar, wonderful cologne.  
  
Home again: Harry manages to push Malfoy out of his mind during the feast that evening, and that night when everyone reunites in the common room. Dean Thomas shows off his new collection of drawings, finished over the holidays; Luna pulls out a strange plant and launches into a breathy explanation of how boiled roots cure insomnia; Hermione burrows herself in an Arithmancy textbook; and Harry tries not to think about Neville and Ron and Millicent Bulstrode and Astoria Greengrass. Malfoy’s nowhere to be found.  
  
Just the next day it happens again. In the ten-minute window that they have to get from class to class, Harry makes his way down the hallway behind the library, the one that’s almost always crowded. Across the crowd of First and Second Years, Harry meets Dean Thomas’ eye, and grins at him. They shout about bothering Ginny at Gryffindor Quidditch practice that weekend, and when Harry turns back, he bumps into Draco Malfoy.  
  
“Watch it,” Harry says, half-joking, because he doesn’t really know what else to say.  
  
Malfoy glares at him and mumbles something rude under his breath.  
  
But he doesn’t quite meet Harry’s eyes, and Harry can’t stop from flushing; just like that, he can’t stop thinking about Malfoy again, the warm solidness of his chest and the shape of his mouth.  
  
In potions that afternoon, they end up sitting together again. Their substitute professor demands that they brew Draught of the Living Dead. Beside him, Malfoy grumbles. Harry ignores the way he fingers his thin quill.  
  
“And obviously,” their professor drones on, “I don’t expect any of you to be successful. In that case, for each failed potion, I will expect a sample of Wiggenweld Potion before the end of the week.” She nods. “Carry on.”  
  
Very carefully, Harry puts space between him and Malfoy so that their elbows won’t touch.  
  
“So,” Harry says.   
  
“You get the ingredients,” Malfoy says efficiently, “I’ll start the base.”  
  
Harry does just that and tries not to look at Malfoy as they work, not sure if he won’t betray himself and turn beet-red.  
  
“Mr. Malfoy. Mr. Potter.” Their professor comes around and inspects their half-arsed potion when they’ve finished. “A disappointment, gentlemen,” she says as she walks away.   
  
“Disappointment,” Harry grumbles, shouldering his bag.   
  
“Yeah,” Malfoy says derisively, “You’re a real disappointment, Potter.”  
  
“Oh, come on,” Harry says, only half-irritated.  
  
  
  
Malfoy leads them to the very edge of the Forbidden Forest. He lifts the heavy lantern. Yellow light illuminates a narrow, winding trail that meanders until it disappears into the woods.  
  
“Horklump juice, mint, moondew drops,” Harry recites again. “Wolfsbane, bloom berry.”  
  
“Do shut up,” Malfoy says, hoisting his lantern up. The trail -- which wanders through a particularly thick thicket of trees -- and dark, rustling leaves as well as the occasional spiderweb reflect the light of Malfoy’s lantern in the darkness.   
  
“I was only saying because you’d asked -- ”  
  
“I asked _once_ , nearly fifteen minutes ago, I didn’t need you -- ”  
  
“ -- and I’m telling you -- ”  
  
“ -- say it over and over again, Potter!”  
  
They glare at each other.   
  
“You know,” Malfoy starts. He looks at Harry. Like really looks at him. His gaze lowers a bit and he blushes, bright red.   
  
Harry clears his throat.   
  
They walk on.   
  
“Horklump juice, mint sprigs,” Harry says, reading off of the list of ingredients they need to collect, “Moondew drops, wolfsbane, bloom berry.”  
  
  
  
Eight o’clock.  
  
The snow surrounding their quaint cabin in the woods hasn’t quite begun to thaw yet, but the days stretch a little longer and snowfall comes less and less. Nevertheless, it’s still quite chilly, so they make their rounds quickly -- Harry outside, running his hands along the nearly invisible purple magic thread, and Malfoy inside -- before rejoining in the kitchen of the safehouse.  
  
After nearly two hours in a windowless dungeon below the ground floor of the castle, ensconced in a Potions classroom with only one Draco Malfoy for company in an attempt to brew Wiggenweld Potion, Harry’s thoroughly exhausted. The rim of his sleeves are slightly singed but his dignity’s still mostly intact.  
  
Malfoy plops into a wooden chair. He looks up and catches Harry looking at him. “What?” he demands.  
  
Harry looks away.  
  
He looks back again when Malfoy becomes more interested in his moleskin pouch, pulling out a glass cauldron and a small tin box. From within the box, Malfoy draws out what looks like one single tea leaf, dried and wrapped into a perfect sphere the size of a pearl.  
  
“Tea?”  
  
Malfoy fills the cauldron with water and boils it. He drops the leaf into the water and hums contentedly.  
  
“Loiteva tea,” he says. “Grown next to the lavender field outside of Colmar.”  
  
Unfurling slowly, the flower opens in the hot water to reveal its bluish-purple insides. A fragrant smell permeates the room, and they watch, transfixed, as the flower colors the tea blue and pink and purple.   
  
They drink, and talk a bit. Harry notes that Terry Boot’s been offered an apprenticeship at Gringotts, and Malfoy tells him that Astoria’s been moved to a medical ward in southern France, with her mother. At least, Harry thinks, it’s less awkward. He decides inwardly that if Malfoy won’t say anything, he won’t either.  
  
It’s easier pretending that everything is fine until breakfast the next morning.  
  
Malfoy comes in just as eggs and toast appear before them on the long tables; Malfoy takes a seat next to Harry, seeing as it’s one of the few spots left. Their elbows brush and for a second, Harry thinks it’ll be an alright morning.  
  
The post flies in then, eager to prove him wrong.  
  
Hermione, seated across from the both of them, flips through the _Daily Prophet_ without relish. “Reconstruction efforts doubled within the Ministry and the city of London. Great progress expected,” she reads. “Repairs at Hogwarts School finally completed.” She snaps the paper and leafs through it. “Nothing else.”  
  
Malfoy stabs an egg yolk viciously, and it bleeds out, yellow and runny, over his golden plate.  
  
“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” Ginny says, frowning around a piece of fried bean.  
  
Hermione purses her lips. “I suppose. I’ve told McGonagall what we’ve done,” she directs to Harry and Malfoy. “She thinks that if there’re more illnesses, we’ll have to close the school.”  
  
“But there haven’t been,” Dean Thomas says from next to Ginny, voice quiet. “There hasn’t been anyone since before the hols.”  
  
“That doesn’t mean there won’t be others,” Malfoy interjects. “But shutting the school down won’t do anything.”  
  
“It will, if there’s a curse here,” Hermione says.   
  
“We brought in a cursebreaker,” Malfoy hisses lowly, “You spoke to him yourself. There’s nothing here.”  
  
Seamus, who had been listening in but pointedly saying nothing, chooses this moment to turn on Malfoy. “Yeah,” he says, “Alright, but what if the curse’s caster knew how to hide -- ”  
  
“Stop it,” Hermione cuts it, “Both of you. Arguing won’t help, especially now.” She glances around them. The other Hogwarts students are picking at their breakfast, paying no attention to the Eighth Year table.  
  
Seamus spits in Malfoy’s direction angrily. Almost reflexively, Malfoy jerks up, his bench screeching across the marble floor as he stands. Harry stands almost at the same time Malfoy does.  
  
“Sit. _Down_.” Hermione flicks her wand and deposits the three of them back onto their seats.  
  
Seamus gnashes his teeth but makes no move to disobey. Malfoy glares across the table at him.  
  
They head to class warily, and tense, but Malfoy brings the subject back up that night.  
  
“Why did you do that,” Malfoy says, lowly, darkly.   
  
They’ve arranged themselves by the frozen lake, halfway between the safehouse and the valley, snug in the middle of nowhere. Around them, it’s quiet. Snow falls gently, dusting their black robes. Colmar’s sprawled across the shore of the lake, dozing gently with her head nestled on her folded limbs.   
  
“Do what?”  
  
“You know what, Potter,” Malfoy spits. “And you keep doing it, too, I don’t -- ”  
  
“What? At breakfast today?”  
  
“Why don’t you just let him -- ”  
  
“Let him what, fight you? Curse you?”  
  
“God,” Malfoy’s face screws up, “Just shut up -- ”  
  
“ -- told you before that I won’t -- ”  
  
“ -- shut _up!”_  
  
“You’re going to make me?”  
  
Malfoy lunges forward and they go sprawling in the snow, scrabbling at each other ineffectively. It’s far too cold to be rough-housing, and they’re tired as it is, so Harry slips up quite quickly: he grunts as Malfoy twists his arm and yanks him down.   
  
Malfoy’s chest meets solidly with Harry’s and he freezes when he feels the bulge in Harry’s robes. Malfoy’s face is impossibly pale, like he’s shocked, like he could be shocked -- how could he be shocked when they’ve had this, this dance, when they’ve known each other for so long and seen each other like this?  
  
“Scared?” Harry pants, cheeks beet-red. Each rise and fall of his chest brushes his body against Malfoy’s.  
  
For an unbelievably long moment, staring at each other, both of them heaving, panting, they stand there.  
  
Malfoy’s nostrils flare. He leans in and presses his mouth against Harry’s.  
  
It’s so, so easy to kiss back; Harry just screws his eyes shut and prays that his lips don’t tremble too much.   
  
Malfoy opens his mouth first, and slips his tongue between Harry’s teeth. Their tongues meet.  
  
Malfoy leans in fully, his weight on Harry’s chest and legs, covering his front with warmth while Harry’s back crunches on ice and snow.  
  
For someone who’s been ignoring Harry for the better part of the week, Malfoy’s awfully good at engaging him at the moment. Harry’s hesitant to press forward, but then Malfoy’s fist skates across his hip and jerks him closer.   
  
Malfoy breathes half a sigh into Harry’s mouth, and then shuffles half a step closer. Pine, lemon, and faint cologne mixes in the air; Malfoy shifts and then there’s the sharp jut of his hip, and then the both familiar and foreign bump of his erection, soft and hard and hot and delicious all at once.  
  
Harry’s fingers flex and tighten around Malfoy’s robes; he kisses harder, presses back.  
  
Harry almost loses himself in the moment, until the snow under him melts and soaks his shirt thoroughly.   
  
“Mhmph -- gerroff,” Harry says, pushing Malfoy off and wincing as he gets off the snow.   
  
Malfoy blinks and pulls back, his mouth red and his eyes bright.   
  
At this point, Colmar snorts behind them.   
  
Malfoy stands up. Steps back. Clears his throat, looking away.  
  
Harry blinks and follows suit, waving his wand to dry the back of his shirt, and warm them up too. His face burns. He turns away. Malfoy does the same.  
  
For a while, they entertain Colmar with tossing a Quaffle back and forth; her serpentine neck snakes back and forth as she catches each toss perfectly.   
  
Harry watches as Malfoy twists with every throw, his lips pressed in concentration. Harry looks away.  
  
After a while, the cold becomes too much. Colmar blows a few pillars of fire as entertainment for herself -- since she’s only acquired this ability recently, she takes the time to flaunt this skill whenever they care to watch -- as well as them two, since it’s hard to ever tire of that brilliant flame: red and scarlet around the edges and bright blue in its core. The fire melts a few layers of ice covering the lake, and keeps them warm for another hour or two, but then they decide to call it a night, and retire.   
  
They Apparate back to the Hog’s Head. Harry catches the bell of the backdoor from ringing before they head inside.   
  
Cold, and hungry, they approach the bar to have some grub and a drink.   
  
The Hog’s Head is busier than usual tonight: a late train has forced some number of questionable characters to quarter within the inn.   
  
Tonight, Harry views the bar from a stranger’s eyes: an enormous, ugly boar head hangs up behind the tap, its horns twisted and shined to a sheen; Aberforth, with his long, white beard and narrow eyes, tends the bar, his voice booming across patrons and all; the bar itself -- full of tables, which today are laden with hot food and drink, and grimy chairs, which are also today occupied by various cloaked figures -- bustles with a dark and mysterious type of energy. Greasy smoke from floating tallow candles and a thick heat emanating from the single fireplace fill the room.   
  
Perched at one end of the long and low bar, Harry and Malfoy purchase a small, piping-hot steak and kidney pie to share, and two cold glasses of butterbeer. Coins clatter as patrons slide change across the table; chatter and muttered conversation curls from mouth to ear. Their fingers brush as they eat and Harry tries not to stare too much. He feels a little numb, a bit like he’s just going through the motions. In his head, he’s replaying the touch, the feel of Malfoy’s mouth, over and over again, until he’s afraid he’ll wear the memory down, like the way a record player scratches and scritches all over a recording until it’s no good.  
  
At the other end of the tavern, a conversation escalates.   
  
“It’s true, my friend, I insist,” a hooded figure says. Their interruption draws Harry and Malfoy’s attention.  
  
“I doubt it,” replies the warty goblin in the seat next to the hooded figure. “That cannot be possible! No self-respecting magic zoologist has ever recorded such animals.”  
  
“Your precious Newt Scamander knows little of real magical creatures! He’s hardly set foot in the wilder regions of the world.”  
  
“Hardly set foot? He’s been across five continents -- ”  
  
“Not one of which is his own! Sudan and Equatorial Guinea, sure, but what knows he of the forests of Estonia? Or the steppes of Russia?”  
  
“Bah!” the goblin scowls. “You can’t come here and expect us to believe such tall tales!”  
  
“What’s this?” Aberforth demands, swinging a dirty rag over his shoulder as he heads towards that end of the bar. Harry and Malfoy look over as well.  
  
The hooded figure’s face remains obscured by a thick black cloak; but wisps of thin, scraggly silver hair peek out from underneath the shadows, roped into a silvery knot, and beaded. The stranger’s hands are gnarled and wrinkled, almost leathery in texture.   
  
“This fellow,” claims the goblin, who’s greenish and purpley, “Says that he’s seen so many creatures in the east. Says there’re yales moving down the mountains.”  
  
“They are,” says the stranger. “War in the valleys has chased them out to the plains. They’re enormous, ibex-like creatures.” This the stranger says to the crowd, who turns to listen. “Their horns are enormous. Two in the front,” the stranger gestures, “curving up and out. And two tusks, curling out from their bottom teeth.”  
  
“Oh, sure,” the goblin grunts.  
  
“The war?” Harry says, leaning in. “On the continent?”  
  
“Haven’t you heard?”  
  
“Of course not,” a witch from a solid oak table interjects, over her mug of firewhiskey. Her eyes are dark and her accent is heavy. “The _Prophet_ won’t report anything like that. There’s nothing like that here.”  
  
“What are you on about?” another wizard with a pointed hat asks.  
  
“Your Lord Voldemort caused quite the stir on the continent,” says the first hooded stranger. “Revolts and rebellions, skirmishes across Europe. Minsk, Kiev. Bucharest. Istanbul.”  
  
“What kind of skirmishes?” the wizard with the pointed hat asks.  
  
“People are angry. Scared. They want to prevent wars.”  
  
“With who, Purebloods?”  
  
“And some.” The stranger drains his glass.   
  
Harry turns and shares a significant look with Malfoy. He turns back, eager to know more of such wars, but the conversation has changed course already.  
  
“The animals,” the witch says, “What creatures did you see?”  
  
The stranger turns, back to the wooden bar, and raises his arms, the universal sign of a storyteller. His hood falls, revealing a shiny, bald head, a beaked nose, and tanned face. His cloak, thick and knotted, falls over his hunched shoulders. “Creatures of all kind,” the stranger says, voice raspy.  
  
Stomachs full and thirst slaked, Harry and Malfoy lean back. Harry turns, so he can better face the storyteller, which means his side brushes against Malfoy’s. Malfoy shifts to rearrange himself more comfortably, but when he finishes, he’s closer than before.  
  
Leaning against each other, they listen.  
  
“In the taiga, Great Horned cats dwell. Their eyes and faces like an owl, but their fangs sharp and their bodies in the shape of a feline. And in the desert, dogs with hundreds of teeth, and a scorpion’s tail.”  
  
The stranger goes on to speak of wonders in the desert and forest. Skepticism comes from the goblin and several others, but for the most part, bar patrons enjoy the stranger’s tales as entertainment.  
  
“Mind you,” the stranger rumbles, “There were much stranger, and older beasts that lived here, before. Before witches and wizards came to be, beasts of ancient lived in these parts. In the skies, dragons -- and kin of dragons. These are the animals we think of -- gargantuan, fire-breathing.   
  
“But there were small beings too. In the Aegean, there were sea dragons, but not what you have in mind. Smaller than your average Kneazle, and some smaller than your fist. Scaly slugs, the color of turquoise, with claws and horns, but no eyes. Shells mounted in their back, in all shapes and designs. There were creatures that lived deep beneath the ocean’s surface, larger than sharks and whales -- krakens that few ever lived to see.  
  
“And in the meadows, dragons the size of birds: their tongues thin, a forked, so they can dip into the throats of flowers for nectar. Their bellies shimmering and iridescent. So small, they perched on grass and twigs easily.”  
  
Tallow drips freely from the candles as the night goes on.  
  
“But then mages and sorcerers came. Enchantresses and warlocks. Such creatures contained magic, and were reaped for those properties. The creatures are no more.” The stranger casts his gaze across the room. “Yet, some essence of them still lingers. In the fields we walk, under the earth we sleep on.  
  
“Such magic can be harnessed, you know. I’m sure many have tried, and many more do not know. But such skill is about as simple as taming a dragon or a lion, that is to say, very difficult.” He pulls out a pipe and begins to smoke. Perfect rings float into the air. “Some think that dark wizards and witches of late have been attempting to raise creatures for that very purpose. A tamed animal in death is no more difficult in life.”  
  
A silence creeps through the bar as the storyteller’s words sink in.  
  
Apparently unaffected, the stranger huffs on his pipe. “Make of that what you will,” he says gruffly, and turns back to the bar, waving for another drink.  
  
The small crowd that had formed around the bar disperses, murmuring amongst themselves. Someone puts the wireless back on and the volume of the pub returns to what it was before.  
  
“Blimey,” Harry says, turning back to Malfoy.  
  
“Consider yourselves lucky,” Aberforth grumbles, ambling over to take away their empty glasses and plates, “He comes ‘round at the end of every winter, but I’ve only ever heard him tell stories like that four or five times.”  
  
Malfoy and Harry walk back to the castle. Around them, snow piles down gently. It isn’t completely awkward; in fact, their shoulders brush nearly the entire walk down, and so Harry chalks it up as a success.  
  
“War on the continent?” Harry ventures.  
  
Malfoy’s mouth purses. “Not surprising. But the fact that news of it has reached here is, a bit anyway.”  
  
“Why’re they fighting?”  
  
“I suppose they don’t want another Dark Lord,” Malfoy says. He scuffs his feet against some snow as they walk towards the castle grounds. “Some witches and wizards are worried about…” he trails off, without any need to finish.  
  
They reach the common room, which is deserted, and head up the stairs. Harry’s dorm is on the left, and Malfoy’s on the right.  
  
“I’ll see you tomorrow?” Malfoy asks, turning slightly so that Harry can see most of his nose and one gray eye.  
  
“Yeah.”   
  
Malfoy nods and heads to his dorm.  
  
“G’night, then,” Harry calls after him.  
  
“Night,” comes floating back.  
  
  
  
It seems as though they’ve reached the same level of comfortableness around each other again -- as comfortable as they ever were, anyway.   
  
“Hey,” Harry says, dropping his bag into the seat next to Malfoy’s at breakfast the next morning.  
  
“Hey yourself,” Malfoy says, and pours him a glass of pumpkin juice.  
  
After breakfast, after the rest of the other students head to class, with their free period, Harry and Malfoy up to the fourth floor corridor -- the one with the spacious alcove and just enough room for two eighteen-year old boys to sit -- to enjoy the beginnings of weak sunlight.   
  
Harry gets to ask Malfoy a bit about his time in France: he learns that Malfoy spent most of break with Narcissa Malfoy, in their countryside cottage, occasionally going into town to enjoy the apothecary or some French delicacies -- pastries or fine tea. Apparently they hadn’t discussed the war, or Malfoy’s father, at all.   
  
In turn, Harry tells Malfoy about the Burrow, and Andromeda’s time in Wizarding Japan.   
  
“It’s just,” Harry’s saying, as he leans back in his seat, the soft cushions underneath him shifting to adjust, “It felt normal. And that was good -- er, I mean it was good, but,” Harry looks out, past the window, towards the grounds that sprawl out across underneath them, “But I felt like everyone else forgot.”  
  
The sound of footsteps interrupts him. Both he and Malfoy look up simultaneously to see Hermione walking down the corridor.  
  
“Harry, I -- ” she stops at the sight of Malfoy. She blinks. “Is this a bad time?”  
  
Harry sits up. “No, it’s fine.”  
  
She hesitates. The lie hangs between them, stretching out in the thin air.   
  
Evidently, whatever she wants to tell them outweighs her conscience, and she Conjures herself a seat and sits in front of the alcove, facing the window.  
  
“Hagrid was quite busy over the summer,” Hermione begins, “Helping with cleaning up after the war and all. I was just talking to him -- that is, Ginny and I went down to visit this morning, and he told us some more about the safehouses he was visiting. More specifically,” she pulls out a roll of parchment, “He gave us a map of a rough network of all the safehouses connected across Europe.” She unrolls the parchment, and it stretches out. “It isn’t anything official, of course, one of the Aurors sketched it out, but look.” She spreads the flat of her thumb across the wrinkled paper. “Nearly ten safehouses in Britain and Scotland, of course. A few here, in France -- and two in Eastern Europe: Lithuania and Ukraine.”  
  
“We know the one in Lithuania exists, for certain,” Harry says, looking at Malfoy. Malfoy nods, though his gaze remains fixed on the map.  
  
Hermione sighs, rubbing her temple. “There’re no more Pureblood Eighth Years, and few underclassmen are Purebloods. McGonagall’s looking after them.”  
  
“So.” Harry scrubs his eyes. “We’re looking for a cure.”  
  
“Yeah.” Hermione looks haggard.   
  
Malfoy waves his wand and the map rolls up. They all head to the common room, grabbing their books and heading to class.   
  
After a satisfying dinner, that night they head to the common room, where Dean and Terry Boot bring out a package of Weasleys’ Wheezes and a pack of butterbeer. For them, it’s a quieter evening: they have a couple of laughs with Mysterious Midnight Moon Madness and Self-propelling custard Pies, before everyone grabs a cold bottle before attempting to work on a slew of homework they’ve been assigned. But eventually, someone starts a game of Exploding Snap though, and only the dedicated -- namely, Hermione and Terry Boot -- stay true to finishing work.  
  
Tonight, Harry finds himself peering over every bottle of butterbeer and every Exploding Snap game to watch Malfoy -- watch him grab a drink and take a seat next to Hermione, watch him eventually tire of the loud, boisterous theatrics and retire upstairs.  
  
“Think I’ll call it a night,” Harry says, soon after, finishing the last of his butterbeer.  
  
Dean and Terry wave to Harry as he heads up, and Hermione watches him curiously.  
  
The tiny hallway between the two boys’ dormitories, lit only by the soft firelight leaking in from downstairs, is nearly pitch-black. But Harry’s walked this way many times, so he treads lightly, easily, taking the way to the right wing of the dormitory.  
  
Near silence pervades the dormitory; the only sounds wafting in are from the common room and Harry’s own footfalls. He reaches the door and knocks gently before stepping inside.  
  
“I never understood why people knocked if they just went ahead and walked into a room anyway,” Malfoy says in lieu of greeting. He’s sitting cross-legged on his bed, reading.  
  
Harry takes a seat on the foot of the empty bed -- Neville’s, most likely -- next to Malfoy. The door swings gently shut behind him. “Warning, I suppose.”  
  
“Hm.”  
  
A single floating orb illuminates the dormitory room, which in structure is essentially identical to the one that Harry shares with Seamus and Terry Boot, except that it’s much neater in organization, with less cluttered items and clothing littering the floor.   
  
“So,” Harry says.  
  
Malfoy looks at him; his eyes drag to the closed door and then back to Harry.   
  
“Are you -- ”  
  
“Do you -- ”  
  
Harry swings his legs over the side of the bed, facing Malfoy’s cot. After a second, Malfoy puts away his book and does the same. Harry’s gut tightens in anticipation. Their knees knock.   
  
In the blue darkness, all that Harry can make out is the sharp line of Malfoy’s nose, the curl of his bottom lip, the glint of his signet ring. It’s enough -- almost too much -- for Harry to lean forward, the outsides of his thighs warm against the insides of Malfoy’s.  
  
The door jerks and creaks open; Harry scrambles back and adopts a casual stance, because of course, Dean chooses that moment to walk into the dormitories.   
  
“Anyway,” Harry says hastily, looking at the half-open mahogany trunk at the base of Malfoy’s bed, “I’ll see you tomorrow?”  
  
“Yeah,” Malfoy says. Dean ignores them, heading to his own four-poster bed to begin getting ready for bed.  
  
Harry looks up at Malfoy. “Want to go flying?”  
  
“Sure.” Malfoy nods.  
  
“Well, g’night then.”  
  
“Good night, Potter.”  
  
Tomorrow can’t seem to come fast enough.  
  
Harry heads awkwardly to his own room, draws the curtains tight around his four-poster bed, sound-proofs and spells the curtains shut. Doesn’t fall asleep for a while.  
  
After a day of classes, a curt attempt at conversation in Potions --   
  
During which, they’d switched up partners so Hermione ended up with Harry and Malfoy was across the room with Terry Boot, _hah_ , and anyway, halfway through the class, Harry looked up. Through the greenish, bluish fumes, his gaze met Malfoy’s, who had then jerked his head a bit, as if to say, what?  
  
And Harry didn’t know what else to say; he had let this dumb smile spread slow and warm all over his face because there was this little piece of hair out of place, over Malfoy’s forehead, and something honey-smooth had oozed in his stomach.  
  
“You really don’t know what you’re doing, are you?” Hermione said, shaking him out of his reverie.  
  
Harry had jerked. “What?”  
  
She had shook her head. “Never mind.”  
  
\-- Evening finally comes.  
  
They set up their tent in small clearing halfway through the valley. With the sun out and snow thawing all around, like chunks of diamond glinting in the weak light, it’s a beautiful day.   
  
They fly for a bit -- the three of them -- not saying much but simply revelling in the peace of the moment, in the cool evening zephyr.  
  
But they both move to duck into the cave soon after Colmar takes off to go hunting. It feels like -- like there’s this fog around them, hanging over them, following them around. It’s hard to concentrate on anything else with this thing looming over Harry’s head, and it doesn’t help that his stomach has decided to tie itself into knots. They sit and talk for a bit, until they don’t.  
  
Malfoy goes first, saying something about getting his books, and pushing the flap of the tent open. Harry follows quickly.  
  
He’s just ducked inside when Malfoy turns around -- for what reason, Harry never finds out, because at that moment Malfoy’s face is impossibly close, his eyes startlingly gray and sharp, like flint or steel or some combination of the two. He’s stopped in his tracks to turn around but Harry halts too late, because this close, his head’s already starting to spin, already heady, drunk on the thought of it, the smell of him this close --  
  
And then Malfoy’s dragging him fully into the tent by his robes; all of the sudden, they’re kissing. Thinking so much about this moment -- it doesn’t seem real; it seems like a dream, like this moment has a surreal quality, like an oil-painting, a moment melted, molded, frozen in time like insects in amber.  
  
At the same time, the details are too much: the rasp of Malfoy’s robes against Harry’s skin, the just-on-the-edge-of-painful scrape of his teeth and the sticky sweaty grip of his palms -- cold nervous sweat.  
  
Harry’s hands skim Malfoy’s shoulders and then the back of his head; Malfoy’s tongue is warm and familiar. It’s better, so much better than before, because it’s more coordinated now, and the tent is warm and quiet around them.   
  
It’s not scary, but it’s intense. Malfoy’s tongue trembles as he kisses and Harry’s hand keeps slipping, clammy with sweat. He tastes a bit like the roast they had for lunch, and like pumpkin juice.   
  
Malfoy shifts a bit, widening his stance so Harry’s leg just slips in between Malfoy’s; and then Harry groans. It isn’t that loud, but it sounds like it in the quiet tent.  
  
Malfoy pulls back. Harry opens his eyes.   
  
“Are you… ” Harry begins.  
  
Malfoy blinks slowly, languidly. His cheeks are flushed.   
  
“Do you want to,” Harry rasps, “Er.”  
  
“What -- ”  
  
“The cot, I mean -- ”  
  
Malfoy blushes, cheeks pink.  
  
“It’ll be more comfortable,” Harry says, face burning.  
  
“I -- yeah.”  
  
Then they’re stumbling towards the cot, Harry’s face on fire as he awkwardly sinks down. They don’t have a drop of alcohol in their blood, and the anger that was so prevalent in their conversations before has faded into the simmer of anticipation, so it feels moderately terrifying when Malfoy leans in, breathing heavily, his face dark and tight as he fists his hands into Harry’s robes and pushes them both onto the sheets.  
  
Harry reaches up and kisses him back, furtively. Their mouths meet, now familiar, until Malfoy says: “Wait, like this -- ” He shifts and rearranges them until they’re on their sides now, with Malfoy half-hovering over him and Harry only has the time to push all thoughts of Malfoy like this with Pansy or Astoria Greengrass out of his mind before they’re kissing again.   
  
Harry’s chest gets tight when Malfoy’s thigh slips and slides in between his leg; there’s no hiding the jut of their pricks as they bump up against each other. It feels strange and intimate like this: Malfoy chokes out a groan and Harry grabs his hips, yanking him down and close, close enough that their noses bump and Malfoy’s lips press against Harry’s cheek.   
  
And then there’s only the heat and the friction; it feels desperate and then unbearably intense as Malfoy’s breath hitches. They’re fumbling, the both of them, rutting and awkward and desperate and feeling each other warm and damp through their robes. Malfoy’s breath is too hot against Harry’s ear and Harry’s sure his elbow keeps jabbing Malfoy’s rib -- but then Harry rolls his hips up the same time Malfoy grinds down and then there’s a spot of wetness as Malfoy squeezes Harry’s arm.  
  
When Harry finally regains his self control, he realizes that his hand’s fluttering somewhere between the expanse of Malfoy’s hip, from where his shirt’s been rucked up and his pale skin’s exposed, and Harry’s thigh. Harry slides his hand across Malfoy’s bare skin, the skin right above the sharp angle of his hip bone.   
  
For a second, Harry thinks Malfoy will push him away. But then Malfoy just huffs a quiet breath of air. He flops back onto the cot next to Harry. Both of them pretend that their hands don’t tremble.   
  
“Have you done that before?” Malfoy asks later.   
  
They’d lay breathing raggedly on that small cot for a few minutes before Malfoy unceremoniously pushed Harry over so as to crawl across the cot and into the small bathroom in the tent. Harry had stared up at the ceiling, listening to the sound of running water, almost disbelievingly, before Malfoy had dragged him out so they could head back to the castle.   
  
“Er, what?” Harry doesn’t meet Malfoy’s gaze but their shoulders bump anyway as they make their way through Hogsmeade. Around them, a street lamp lighter runs from lamp to lamp, muttering a quick spell to illuminate the cobblestone path.   
  
“I mean,” Malfoy makes an awkward gesture with a gloved hand before coughing delicately.  
  
“Oh,” Harry’s face burns again. “I don’t -- ” He thinks of patchwork design of Ginny’s throw and the faded green Holyhead Harpies poster in her room. They were there in the summer, and Harry thinks of the one night they’d gotten halfway on the bunk, Ginny’s jeans against Harry’s trousers, their mouths open and slotted together, the room unbearably hot. “Kind of,” Harry settles for, lamely.  
  
“Oh.”  
  
They walk a little more, and before long, Hogwarts comes into view.   
  
“What about you?” Harry asks, rushed. He tries to make it seem as though he’s not that interested.  
  
“Yeah,” Malfoy says, eyes inspecting the spotted ground.   
  
Harry imagines Malfoy and Pansy, her short dark hair and his short light hair. He imagines their shoulders, their chests. It isn’t a terrible image.  
  
“Well,” Harry says, when they’ve climbed up the moving staircases and up into the boys’ dormitory, “Good night.”  
  
Malfoy gives him an odd look. Eventually, the corner of his mouth lifts and Malfoy replies, “Good night, Potter.”  
  
It takes Harry a long while before he falls asleep. He stares up into the ceiling and thinks of a lot of things.  
  
But when he eventually does close his eyes, he falls into a deep and dreamless sleep.  
  
  
  
The next morning, Malfoy passes him a jug of pumpkin juice when asked, which is nice, but then proceeds to essentially ignore Harry throughout breakfast, turning instead to talk to Hermione, who’s sitting across the table.   
  
They’re halfway through discussing Arithmancy lessons when it’s clear that Hermione’s distracted, even to Harry. Malfoy frowns and tilts his head a bit. “What?”  
  
Hermione looks left and right before leaning across the table. “It’s just -- Ginny and Luna,” she directs towards Harry and Malfoy. “They weren’t feeling well last night, so I took them to the hospital wing.” Hermione gives them both a significant look, then continues cutting her eggs.   
  
Harry swallows a bit of pumpkin juice. His throat feels dry and suddenly the little warmth that had settled underneath his skin dissipates.   
  
Hermione disappears to the library with a few muttered words. In her wake, Harry pushes aside their mostly empty plates and goblets, to unroll a lengthy parchment across the breakfast table.   
  
“And what’s this,” Malfoy arches half an eyebrow, deigning to look sideways at Harry.   
  
“The report, from the cursebreaker,” Harry responds. “Full-length, detailed description of what was not found here.” Harry runs a finger along the thick parchment. “No curses, no remnants of Dark magic, save for what was left from the war.”  
  
Malfoy mutters something about an idiot.  
  
Harry adds, maybe unhelpfully, “It is his job, you know.”  
  
Malfoy stabs his sausage. A second later, he asks roughly, “Why are you here?”  
  
Harry frowns. “What?”  
  
“Why are you here? At Hogwarts?”  
  
Harry rolls up the cursebreaker’s report and inwardly reminds himself to return it back to Hermione as soon as possible. He looks around: the Great Hall is nearly deserted; everyone else has headed to class. For a second, Harry debates playing dumb.  
  
Malfoy chooses that moment to spear a piece of sausage and put it in his mouth. Malfoy chews. Harry blinks and remembers the question. “Well, it’s like, I didn’t know what else to do. I could’ve gone and -- joined the Aurors, but,” Harry frowns. “It’s like I’m here because I’m waiting, and deciding what to do. Because I don’t know what else to do. Yet.”  
  
Malfoy nods wisely and sips his water. Harry doesn’t ask the same question in return: Malfoy had only returned to Hogwarts for an Eighth Year since it was part of his agreement at the end of his trial.  
  
“Anyway,” Harry says hastily, turning away from that train of thought, “We’ll be out of here soon enough. Maybe even sooner than expected.”  
  
“You’re thinking of going to the safehouses,” Malfoy states dryly.  
  
“We don’t have anything else to go on.”  
  
“We have nothing else to go on, Potter. This entire train of thought is based on pure conjecture.” Malfoy narrows his eyes. “I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it again: we’re assuming that the cursecaster is a Death Eater -- if, by the way, there is a curse at all -- and that this Death Eater is one of the Death Eaters on the run on the continent, and may possibly still be alive and hiding in one of the safehouses in Eastern Europe. You’re suggesting that we go after him.”  
  
Harry’s mouth twists.   
  
They pack their things and head out of the Great Hall.   
  
“Look,” Harry says as they make their way down a shrouded corridor, “I know that -- ”  
  
“No,” Malfoy hisses, his face cruel suddenly. He steps into an alcove and Harry follows. “You listen, Potter, you listen to me -- ”   
  
In the shade of the hidden alcove, Malfoy yanks up his sleeve. His Dark Mark is black and blotched against his pale skin. “This is a part of me. It’s branded into my _flesh_ ,” Malfoy’s eyes are sharp and livid, “And it won’t ever go away. Do you understand?”  
  
“Why,” Harry’s mouth turns dry, “What are you saying?”  
  
Malfoy grabs onto Harry’s robes. “I’m saying that you can’t treat me like this -- like I’m some fucking martyr, or some savior -- I’m _not_ , you understand?” Malfoy’s bottom lip trembles and Harry wants -- “I’m not what you think I am, I’m not someone who’s changed like that. How do you know I won’t drag you into the middle of a Death Eater safehouse and kill you there, huh? How do you know I haven’t planned this all out?” Malfoy’s voice shakes. “You don’t -- ”  
  
“I don’t,” Harry agrees, blinking, “I don’t know if you’ll kill me. I don’t know what you’ll do. But I know what you’ve done.” Harry looks down at Malfoy’s arm and touches the skin there, burned and tattooed and black. “I of all people know what you’ve done.”  
  
Malfoy shakes his head. They were doing so well, honestly, until this morning, and Harry’s trying to understand, he really is --  
  
“I could kill you,” Malfoy breathes. Suddenly, as though spurred on by his own words, his face contorts and he pulls out a wand, lashing forward: Harry’s back collides with the stone column behind him and his jugular vein pulses against Malfoy’s hawthorn wand. “I could kill you, right now.”  
  
“Fine,” Harry hears himself say. His head is spinning, rushing full of blood, boiling; he’s drowning, he’s drowning -- “Do it,” he goads. “Do it now, then.”  
  
“I -- ” Malfoy’s voice cracks, and so does his resolve as his wand slips.   
  
“Come on,” Harry shakes his head, his blood thrumming in his veins; he’s worked up now, and the anger is suddenly so quick to rise, swelling in his chest, bubbling up as easily as it did during the war -- “Come on, Malfoy, do it.” Malfoy shudders: his throat, like a marble pillar, is so so pale as he swallows. “Fucking do it,” Harry says lowly. “Kill me. Hit me.”  
  
Malfoy jerks away, as if shocked.   
  
“Hit me!” Harry yells, grabbing Malfoy by the robes, “Hurt me, come on! You want to, don’t you?”  
  
“Shut up,” Malfoy snarls. “Shut up!”  
  
Harry opens his mouth to retort when Malfoy knees him solidly in the gut.  
  
Bright pain erupts in Harry’s stomach; he’s almost glad for it -- the anger melts away as quick as it came and suddenly all Harry can think about is the residue left, like some trace of ancient magic.   
  
“What,” Malfoy says, “What’s wrong with you?”  
  
Harry groans, clutching his stomach. It takes a second for him to lean back up, meet Malfoy in the eye. Harry’s still wincing when he says, “Get it out of your system. Or something,” he straightens up and shoves his wand back into his robes. “Just know that you’re not getting rid of me so easily.”  
  
Malfoy laughs shakily, disbelievingly.   
  
“You’re not getting rid of me so easily,” Harry repeats, panting. “I know you. I know what you’ve done,” he looks at Malfoy’s Dark Mark, “And we’re still here. We’re right fucking here.”  
  
Malfoy turns away and runs his hands through his hair, as if in shock. “You’re mad, Potter.”  
  
“Yeah, alright,” Harry says, tipping his head back against the stone wall. The castle is cold underneath his burning skin. “So are you, Malfoy. I know you.”  
  
“Yeah,” Malfoy echoes. “I suppose you do.”  
  



End file.
